Trigger
by LaylaBinx
Summary: [Part 2 of the Reconstruction Series] It takes ten tiny words to tear him apart. A character study of Bucky Barnes which focuses on his trigger words. Leads up to Civil War (some spoilers)
1. Zhelaniye

**Hello all! Hope you're doing well! So this is an idea I've been playing around with since the movie came out; I really wanted to focus on the code words and write something that centered on each of them. It's actually going to be broken into two parts: part 1 will be everything that led up to Civil War and part 2 will be everything that happens afterwards.**

 **This story will have some pretty ugly images along the way but I'll try to warn everyone at the beginning of each chapter just in case. Also, this story might have some mentions of Stucky and m/m implications but it won't be anything explicit; it can always be read as heavy bromance too for those who aren't into that kind of thing!**

 **Hope you all enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing =/**

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Longing. That's the only word he has to describe the expression on Steve's face. There's a whole list of other emotions: wistful, shocked, anxious, rejected. But above everything else is an all encompassing _longing_. Steve sees his uniform and he knows without ever being told, knows all the way down to his core. Bucky is leaving and Steve is staying behind.

"You get your orders?" Steve doesn't try to hide the resignation in his voice; he's known this was coming ever since the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Bucky hesitates for a split second before he answers, rocking back on his heels slightly. He knows that look, the annoyance that accompanies the realization that he's being held back once again. Held back because of his health, his size, his weight, and any of the other hundreds of reasons the world had decided to beat Steve down throughout his life. He's not angry with Bucky, he's angry with himself.

He can't deny it, it's a conclusion Steve can come to on his own, but he deserves to hear it from Bucky himself. "107th, Sergeant James Barnes," he tells him, flimsy, half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We're shipping out for England first thing tomorrow."

It's Steve's turn to hesitate, caught in a turmoil of emotions he can't begin to describe. He's proud of Bucky, so damn proud it hurts, but it's hard to feel happy when he knows he's being left behind. Knows he won't be given a chance to defend his country the way he wants to. "I should be going," he intones quietly, shaking his head and glaring down at the trash strewn concrete.

Bucky knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he allowed it Steve would spend the rest of the evening in this godforsaken alley lamenting his fate. He can't let that to happen, not to Steve and not tonight. Tomorrow he ships out to the great unknown, the pockmarked battlefields of Europe. He wants at least one last good night before he goes.

"Come on, pal," he says with a laugh that's just a little forced. He loops an arm around Steve's skinny, bony shoulders and tugs him along through the alley. "It's my last night. We gotta get you cleaned up."

Steve frowns slightly at this but makes an effort to finger comb his floppy hair away from his face. "Where are we going?"

Bucky grins and tugs him a bit tighter into the one armed hug. "The future," he tells him, slapping at half-folded newspaper to his chest and leading him out into the street.

 **OOOOO**

The future turns out to be a fair of sorts, bright lights and demonstrations and excited, curious crowds. Bucky is still in his uniform and Steve has cleaned up as well as he can considering the short notice. His clothes are still a little rumpled and he has a bruise forming beneath one eye to match the split in his lip but he at least tries to make a good appearance.

"What'd you tell her about me?" he asks, combing his hair to the side again self-consciously.

Bucky wants to swat his hand away and tell him to just relax because there's no way he would ever tell anyone anything bad about Steve. He settles for grinning and waves at the two girls skipping their way. "Only the good stuff," he promises as the pretty brunette links her arm with his. Her friend, an equally pretty blonde, comes to a stop beside them and her smile falters just a bit when she sees Steve. Apparently she had been expecting something different.

Steve tries not to let it bother him as the brunette drags Bucky ahead of them, her friend tagging along right beside her. He can't blame her honestly; he knows he's not much to look at compared to Bucky and if she had been expecting someone similar she was sorely disappointed. Their double dates usually ended this way though so Steve isn't really surprised when Bucky ends up with both girls on his arm.

A demonstration begins on one of the stages not too far away and the girls rush over excitedly, dragging Bucky along with them. Steve follows behind them quietly. The man on stage, an eccentric inventor named Howard Stark, is discussing crazy things like renewable energy and flying cars. It sounds absurd but then he has prototype (albeit one that stays afloat for approximately ten seconds) and it feels like they've just seen something incredible.

Bucky grins broadly and turns back toward Steve but finds the place where he had been standing moments before empty. He frowns, scanning the crowd briefly but finding no trace of the smaller man. His eyes land on the sign for a recruitment center across the park and he sighs heavily, knowing exactly where Steve disappeared off to.

Sure enough, he finds him just inside the entrance, trying once again to find some loophole in the system, some technicality he could take advantage of that would allow him to enlist. And God knows Steve is a stubborn son of a bitch; if there was a way in he would find it.

"You're really gonna do this again?" Bucky asks, resigned and tired because he already knows the answer.

Steve just shrugs and buries his hands in his pockets. "It's a fair. I figured I'd try my luck."

"As who?" Bucky asks, suddenly irritated with the situation. "Steve from Ohio? They'll catch you or worst of all they'll take you."

This causes a flash of annoyance to flicker across Steve's face and he sets his shoulders back a bit to make himself seem taller. It doesn't work. "Look I know you don't think I can do this-"

And actually that comment is worse than the undying stubbornness. Steve actually thinks that about him, thinks that Bucky thinks he can't do it but it's actually completely opposite. Bucky _knows_ Steve could and would do it and that's the problem. Steve doesn't know when to quit, won't ever back down from a fight even if it kills him in the process, and Bucky knows this as an absolute truth. He knows Steve can do it and that's why he doesn't want him to.

"This isn't a back alley fight," he tells him as patiently as he can. "It's war, Steve. There are plenty of other important jobs out there-"

But Steve's not having it. He's not content to sit on the sidelines and watch while others take their place on the front lines. He's not content with being not strong enough, not being good enough, with being left behind. And there it is again, that longing look. The desire to prove himself, to show the world and everyone in it that he can do whatever he sets his mind to regardless of the obstacles.

"There are men laying down their lives," Steve insists, equally exasperated by the argument. "I got no right to do any less than them. That's what you don't understand. This isn't about me."

Bucky sighs heavily, letting his shoulders slump. "Right. Cause you got nothin' to prove."

Steve doesn't answer, meeting his gaze evenly. If it's a challenge, like so many other things in Steve's life, he doesn't back down.

The girls come up behind them, calling for Bucky's attention. He breaks his gaze with Steve to look back at them, flashing them a charming smile and the promise of taking them dancing.

He turns back to Steve then, sighing again and shaking his head. "Don't do anything stupid until I get back."

"How can I?" Steve retorts easily. "You're takin' all the stupid with you."

Bucky huffs out a quiet laugh and walks back to catch Steve in a brief hug. "You're a punk."

"Jerk," Steve mutters back, reciprocating the embrace and watching with the same longing look as Bucky steps away again. "Don't win the war until I get there," he calls after him, earning a short salute from the other man as he disappears into the crowd to find their (his?) dates. Steve lingers behind, hands dug deep in his pockets, longing to go but forced to stay.

 **OOOOO**

The night passes by in a blur of dancing and whiskey. The girls are beautiful, the liquor is strong, and Bucky does everything he can to quell the crushing sense of dread that's been building in his chest ever since he got his orders. He puts on a brave front, smiles easily and laughs at the appropriate time and tries his best to act like tomorrow will never come. Tomorrow represents the unknown, a dangerous terrain he's never crossed before. Tomorrow could be the last time he ever sees Brooklyn. Tomorrow, frankly, is terrifying.

He would never admit it, would never confess it to anyone (especially not to Steve) but he didn't enlist of his own accord. He was drafted just like every other able-bodied young man in the country. He received the conscription notice in the mail before he ever even considered enlisting. Honestly, had it not been for the draft, he doesn't know if he would have joined.

Not that he didn't want to do his part and defend his country, he wasn't a coward or a slacker, but he hesitated because he knew that he'd be leaving Steve alone. Steve who went out of his way to do the right thing even though he usually ended up with a black eye because of it. Steve who caught pneumonia once a year, without fail, and refused to go to the hospital even when he was coughing so much he couldn't stand up. Steve who has no one else in the world and would be completely and utterly alone once Bucky left.

He would never, ever tell him that though, enforce that idea that Steve needed someone to take care of him. He did (stubborn bastard) but Bucky would never tell him that. He doesn't know if that makes him less of a man, not jumping at the opportunity when it came. Honestly he hardly even thought about it.

So yeah, Bucky had been hesitant to join and might not have if there had been a choice. Luckily for him there hadn't been a choice; he was drafted and given the title of Sergeant and expected to do his part to defend America and support the Allies. Sometimes he wishes he was as brave and fearless as the front he puts on. As the man Steve saw in him.

The girls provide good company for the evening and for a short time he's able to forget that he ships out in the morning. He dances with them, holds them close and allows them to hang on as well. When he drops them off later that night he has two different shades of lipstick on his collar and his uniform smells like floral perfume.

He smiles at them while they disappear inside, waves until the door closes behind them. The apartment is only a few blocks away and it's not a far walk. The only problem is that now he's alone and there's nothing to keep the apprehensions about tomorrow at bay. Hell, tomorrow is now today and in just a few short hours he'll be making his way to the train station.

A flare of nervous energy causes his stomach to flip uneasily (or maybe that's the whiskey) and he rolls his shoulders back to stand up straighter. He digs his hands in his pockets and begins the walk home, ignoring the flutter of anxiety that accompanies each step.

He fishes the key out of his pocket as he gets closer, taking the stairs two at a time and coming to a stop in front of their door. He pauses, hand hovering in front of the lock. The thought suddenly comes to him that this is the last night he'll be spending in this apartment, in this city, possibly ever. It shouldn't be as profound as it is, he's known this was coming for months, but the realization now freezes him in place.

He shakes his head, taking a slow breath to steady himself. He's blaming a good majority of his anxiety and apprehension on the whiskey. Everything will be fine; what's the worst that could happen? He jiggles the key into the lock and pushes open the door.

The lights are off already and Steve's asleep on the flimsy, threadbare mattress they share. Their apartment is tiny, little more than a shack with four sturdy walls, but it's been home for the past four years. It's home for the last night. Bucky sighs again softly and closes the door behind him, keeping the lights turned off.

He undresses down to his shorts and hangs his uniform on the back of the door carefully. It's a little past two in the morning and he knows he'll have to be up and dressed no later than 5:30 in order to make it to the train station on time. He's not worried about it at the moment though; right now all he wants to do is sleep and spend one last night in his apartment.

He walks across the room the mattress pressed up against the wall and sinks down slowly onto the edge of it. Steve is curled up on his side of the bed, facing the wall and breathing slow. Bucky stares at his back for several long seconds, watching him breathe and taking in every detail he can. He wonders if he'll forget them once he's gone, if the tiny details that made up everything in their lives will disappear in a cloud of ash and gunsmoke.

He shrugs it off and slides down onto the mattress, honestly too tired to focus on it right now. Steve shifts slightly beside him but lays still once more. Bucky isn't fooled.

"Hey Stevie," he whispers quietly in the humid, stale darkness of their apartment. "You awake?"

Steve doesn't answer for a second but finally relents with a quiet huff. "Hard to sleep with you yappin'," he retorts softly with no heat in his voice. "How was the dance?"

"Hot," Bucky admits, stretching out slowly and staring up at the darkened ceiling. "Don't know why they don't turn on fans in those dances halls. You'd think people sweatin' all over the floor would give 'em a hint."

Steve chuckles quietly and keeps his back to him.

"Weird to think this'll be my last night here," Bucky mutters, more to himself than Steve at this point. He's thinking out loud, voicing his concerns when before he had kept them to himself.

Steve huffs again, haughty and slightly irritated, and flips over to face him. He grumbles something under his breath that sounds and awful lot like "stupid jerk" before reaching out and grabbing two fistfuls of Bucky's shirt. In less than a second he's buried his face against the taller man's chest, holding tight and breathing slow and ragged. Bucky wraps his arms around him gently, pulling him close and resting his chin on the top of Steve's head.

"You gotta promise not to get yourself killed over there, Barnes," Steve grumbles into his chest, his fingers tangled tight in the fabric of his shirt. "You gotta promise me."

Bucky nods but he knows it's not a promise he can guarantee. "As long as you promise to write to me," he counters easily, fingers tracing down Steve's bony back carefully. "I heard soldiers get real homesick over there, Stevie. Start doing crazy, reckless things. You writin' to me, keeping me up to date on what kind of trouble you're getting yourself into over here, it'll probably keep me from doing anything stupid."

Steve laughs (or maybe it's a quiet sob) and hides his face against Bucky's chest. "You're such a jerk, you know that?" he grumbles and it's a quiet, intimate admission to something much deeper that neither of them have the courage to say.

Bucky smiles thinly and pulls him closer; he feels the same but tonight isn't the time to talk about that. It would feel cheap and forced and timing is everything but timing is also fickle. "I know, punk," he mumbles back, arms still circled around Steve tightly. "I know."

They stay that way for the rest of the night, holding onto each other like it's the last time. Maybe it is. For as much as Steve wants to go, Bucky wants to stay. The morning will come, as it always does, and Bucky will be forced to leave, Steve forced to stay behind. It was almost like a cruel song or nursery rhyme: longing to go, longing to stay; neither one will get their way.

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 **Thanks for reading guys! More to come soon! :D**


	2. Rzhavyy

**Thanks so much for all the follows and reviews guys! Y'all are awesome! Poor Bucky, it's not going to get better for him anytime soon =/**

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"32...557."

It's Tuesday. At least he thinks it's Tuesday...it could be Monday. He's not sure actually. The concept of time is pretty meaningless down here; there's nothing but synthetic light and dull, grimy windows so telling day from night is difficult. Hours move like molasses sometimes, lightning strikes others. Days blur together, weeks, months, he honestly has no idea how long he's been here. His addled brain tries to lock onto a feasible timeline and settles on weeks. He thinks he's been here for a few weeks. Still not sure...too tired to care...

"Sergeant James Barnes…" The voice that echos in the room above him sounds nothing like his own. It's hollow and thin, brittle like dry rot floorboards. He thinks part of it is from the cold but he _knows_ part of it is from screaming. Screaming that makes his throat burn and his lungs ache, leaves him breathless and miserable. He thinks it would probably be worse if he didn't black out from pain and exhaustion after a while but there's always screaming before every black out.

He doesn't know what they're doing to him, what they're trying to accomplish. He catches a few words here and there, rapid fire German mixed with heavily accented English. _Experiment, trial, serum_...the words don't make sense and he can't make them make sense in his head. They're testing something for their soldiers and who better to use as a guinea pig than their POWS?

They test things on him a few times a week, experiments that involve scalpels and electricity. They slice open his skin to see how long he bleeds, break his fingers to see how long they take to heal. They jab him in the ribs with a cattle prod and watch with noticeable disinterest as he writhes on the floor. He doesn't know if they're satisfied or displeased with the results; they make their notes, talk amongst each other, and start the process over again a few days later.

There are injections almost every day, long, sharp needles filled with thick, viscous fluid that burns all the way up his arms. It feels like his veins are being filled with molten tar that thickens and coats as it travels. His arms arms are bruised all over from where the needles had pierced his skin and the bruises feel bone-deep and systemic. His body aches and burns in ways he's never known, could never comprehend. He feels fever-hot and freezing at the same time, shivering through the sweat that clings to his skin and dampens his hair.

He vaguely wonders if this was how Steve felt when he was laid low by a particularly nasty strain of the flu that one winter. He burned for days, shivering as though he were freezing to death, and he could only look on helplessly as the younger man suffered. He shies away from the thought though because thinking about Steve hurts; thinking about anyone back home hurts. It leaves a heavy, weighted ache in the center of his chest, dark and bottomless as a black hole. He thinks about Steve and he wants to sob.

They led him in here this morning, two guards holding him up while a thin, wraith-like man in glasses focused on the charts spread out across his desk. He nodded to the guards and they dumped him unceremoniously on the table, tightening thick leather straps across his chest and legs to keep him still. He doesn't know what kind of depraved tests they have planned for today but it's never anything good. He steeled himself and focused on breathing.

The doctor, if he could be called that, left him alone and strapped to table while he went to gather supplies. That had been over a half hour ago and he still hadn't returned. Not that he's complaining; any time away from the sadistic doctors and their experiments meant time that he wasn't being tortured so he'll take what he can get at the moment.

"32557…" Something drips on his face, slips and slides down the side of his cheek. He flinches slightly and shifts his focus upward, blinking at the rusted pipe above his head. It seems out of place and he wonders why he hasn't noticed it before. _Didn't notice 'til it dripped on you_ , _genius_ , his brain points out uselessly. _Shut up_ , he thinks back vindictively. The thought process stops there. Ha, that'll show it.

He focuses on the pipe, high up above him and dripping...something. Water probably but honestly there was no telling. His skin wasn't melting from where the first drop hit so he can safely assume it's not acid. Hurray for small victories.

It drips again, hitting him in the same spot, and the height of the pipe is just enough to cause the droplet to sting when it makes contact. He frowns and glares weakly at the source of the drip. Stupid rusted pipe. If he wasn't currently strapped to the table, he's pretty sure he could reach up there and touch it. But the aforementioned "strapped to the table" is a problem and also the fact that he's pretty sure he can't stand up on his own right now even if he wanted to.

The past few times they came to drag him out of his cell, they had done just that: dragged him. The injections always leave him weak and unsteady and it's a struggle to stand on his own, let alone walk very far. A few of the others guys in his cell help out where they can, fending off the guards and running interference for him when he's too out of it to speak for himself. One of them, a big guy named Dugan, likes to throw out incredibly colorful insults to the guards every time they pass the cell to deflect their attention away from him. And his list of insults and topics for insults seems endless. He likes Dugan.

"Sergeant-" Another drop hits his face and he frowns again. The water smells like the pipe, rust, rusty, rusted. The entire room smells like rust now, that's all he can think about. Iron, metal, copper. It smells like blood. Rust and blood, blood and rust. His thoughts drift to the Tin Man, frozen with his axe because his joints had rusted. His blood turned to rust.

"James Barnes," he starts again, dizzy and disoriented and trying desperately to focus on something, _anything_. When they were in basic training, their drill instructors taught them how to withstand torture during interrogation. Name, rank, number, over and over to keep from breaking. One of the soldiers in his unit cracked a joke about that, claiming he'd never have to use it because he wasn't going to get captured; he'd take down every Nazi he came across. His name was Daniel Burke and he took a bullet between the eyes the day they were captured. He'd never have to use that information because he'd never get the chance.

A lot of them never got the chance, never even got the option. What they got instead was a bullet and shrapnel, blood soaked uniforms and a violent death on foreign soil. He thinks about Daniel Burke and the Saint Michael charm his grandmother had given him still attached to his dog tags. He thinks about Arthur Dowling and the pretty young wife he left behind when a grenade rolled into his foxhole. He thinks about how senseless their deaths were, how quick and brutal and meaningless.

He thinks about the stoic, emotionless soldiers who will show up on their family's doorsteps, folded flag and letter of condolences in hand. He thinks about how "sorry" is such an empty, hollow word, how it doesn't even begin to mend the grief and anger and desolation left by the loss of a loved one. _Our deepest condolences on the loss of your son...he fought bravely...he defended his country…he was a hero._ Bullshit. Those words were nothing more than sugar-coated, sympathetic dribble used to soften the brutality of war. Your son died in terror, shot down in a frozen German forest, killed in a freak accident, missing and presumed killed in action.

He thinks about how his own family will receive a visit like that, informing them that he had been taken prisoner, lost behind enemy lines, presumed dead. There's a very real possibility that whatever they've been injecting him with will kill him and then they'll just move onto someone else. He thinks about how that folded flag will sit next to a picture of him on the mantle, the only thing they'll have left of him. He thinks about how they'll spend the rest of their lives wondering if he was somehow still alive, if by some miracle he survived this ugly, bloody war.

Worst of all, he thinks about Steve again. Thinks about how he'll react when he gets the news, how wretched and reckless he'll become knowing his best friend is dead. He thinks about him getting involved in much larger, more dangerous fights because now he has nothing left to lose, no one to pull him out of the alley, no one to stop him from getting himself killed. He thinks how Steve will be left as nothing more than a walking deathwish, hollow and numb and desperate to take out his rage and grief in the most destructive ways possible.

"32557…" The water that slides down his cheek this time has nothing to do with the rusted pipe above him. He swallows thickly, fighting down pain and nausea and gut-wrenching despair. He's going to die down here, he knows it, and what's worse is that his family and Steve won't even have a body to bury. If he knows anything about the Nazis by now it's that they'll dispose his body as quickly and carelessly as possible, a mass grave or a hastily built bonfire. There will be nothing left, just a name a few photographs to prove he even existed.

There's a loud crack somewhere outside the compound but he doesn't even have it in him to flinch. The guards were always testing out new weapons and equipment, trying to find the thing that could inflict the most damage with the least amount of effort. Their technology is futuristic and complex, almost alien. If they manage to perfect it, if they can turn all that technology in their favor, this war might be a lot more complicated than previously imagined.

"Sergeant...James Barnes…" Another drop of rusty water lands on his face. This dripping pipe is getting old really fast. Each drop leaves a long, cold trail down the side of his face and he can feel it seeping into his hair. It's giving him a headache.

There's another crash, a bit louder and closer this time, and he cringes inwardly. That can only mean the doctor has come back with his supplies and the next round of experiments is about to begin. He braces himself, mentally and physically, for what's to come.

What he gets instead is a bit unexpected. Instead of the doctor there's a tall blond man looming over him, saying his name and ripping the straps away with his bare hands.

"Bucky," the blond says breathlessly, hovering over him with concerned blue eyes. "It's me. It's Steve."

For a second all he can do is stare. He knows Steve, has known Steve since he was six-years-old, and the man in front of him is most definitely _not_ Steve. His Steve was small and feisty, all bones and sharp wit. The man above him is too big to be his Steve.

He stares for a good ten seconds, trying to determine if it was actually _his_ Steve and not a trick of the light or worse, a cruel hallucination brought on by whatever they've been injecting him with.

"Steve?" he says, the question coming out confused and a little wary because even if this was _his_ Steve, how did he get here? He was supposed to be home, back in Brooklyn, safe. He was supposed to be safe.

"Steve," he says again because that idiot smile is unmistakable and somehow his stupid, reckless, brave Steve is in the heart of Nazi Germany and he's not sure if he's happy to see him or pissed.

The blond man nods emphatically and grabs him by the shoulders, hauling him up into a sitting position. He keeps his hands on him at all times, on his shoulders, his arms, his back. Steve's hand ( _too big, not bony anymore…_ ) comes up to cup the back of his neck briefly.

"I thought you were dead," Steve (new, big Steve) says, blue eyes stricken as he takes in the other man's haggard appearance.

He can't think of anything intelligent to say so he just clings to him for a moment longer and stares. "I thought you were smaller."

There's another crash from outside and Steve looks away momentarily. He tightens his grip on him, pulls him close. "Come on, we gotta go." He loops one of Bucky's arms around his shoulder and leads him toward the door.

"What happened to you?" he asks drunkenly, swaying slightly from the abrupt change in gravity. He has to know because even though this is still his Steve it's not _his_ Steve, the Steve he remembers. Steve just holds him close and keeps moving.

"I joined the army," he tells him simply with that stupid half-smile of his and it's just such a _Steve_ thing to say that he accepts it with little more than a shrug. He holds onto him, holds him tight, and allows Steve to lead him out of the room that smells like rust.

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 **Thanks so much for reading guys! :D**


	3. Semnadtsat'

**Woo! Two chapters in one week! This chapter does contain a few gory images so please read at your discretion! Hope you enjoy! :D**

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The sky is the color of cigarette ash, dark and treacherous with the threat of a blizzard just around the corner. Fat, heavy snowflakes are tumbling down like wet balls of cotton, mixing in with the smaller flurries that twist and swirl through the frozen air. It lands on uniforms, sinks into fabric, chills to the bone. If the color grey could be a place, it would definitely be this snow drenched valley.

Cutting through the valley below, thick and black like the body of a viper, is an expanse of train tracks. There's a cable above their heads, laughably thin and swaying in the breeze. Morita assures them it's strong enough and if anyone had any doubts they weren't sharing them. They have a train to catch, it will be arriving any minute, and the snow is still falling.

"Remember when I forced you to ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?" Bucky asks, his eyes locked on the tracks slicing through the valley. He feels the need to make some kind of conversation because this plan is ridiculously crazy and _Jesus_ it's a long way down.

Steve takes the bait, his eyes trained on the tracks as well. "Yeah and I threw up?"

"This wouldn't be payback, would it?"

The corner of Steve's mouth quirks a bit. "Now why would I do that?"

Bucky smirks a little and tugs his jacket a bit tighter around his body. He knows he's not the only one being affected by the cold but for some reason feels it _deeper_ than that. He doesn't know for sure, really has no basis for comparison, but he's pretty sure he's become more sensitive to the cold thanks to whatever those Hydra doctors had been injecting him with in the compound. He hasn't felt warm, truly, comfortably warm, in months and he blames it completely on the experiments they had been running on him.

It's not just superficial either, it sinks and settles into his bones, crystallizes his molecules and turns his blood into an icy slush. He think that if they somehow manage to survive all of this, make it back from the war, he's going to move to Arizona and live in the desert.

Their confirmation comes a minute later: the train is approaching, Zola onboard, and their window of opportunity is shrinking just as it opens. Steve is the first to take the plunge, hooking himself to the overhead cable and stepping off the ledge. Bucky follows along behind him, sliding down the cable toward the speeding train cutting through the valley.

There's a brief moment of panic that the descent is too slow, that they'll miss or come up short, but then they're landing on the roof of a moving train and everything feels surreal. In spite of the inertia of the train, they're able to move easily, stepping from one car to another to get to the correct one.

Steve goes down the ladder first, Bucky right behind him, and they both slip into the empty car. They have the element of surprise on their side and if luck decided to play a part in any of it, maybe they'd be able to get Zola without ever firing a shot. It's wishful thinking at least.

Steve ends up ahead of him in the car, only a few steps, but that's all it takes. The door to the car slams shut and then they're separated; a few inches of steel and glass but it might as well have been a foot of concrete. Everything gets loud then and the plan goes to hell in a hurry.

There's the pop of gunfire from behind him, a loud concussive blast on Steve's side of the door, and Bucky ducks behind a stack of crates to avoid getting shot. He's not sure who's shooting at him but it doesn't matter; it's a situation of him vs. them and he's not about to let himself get taken out. Steve is fighting his own battle on the other side of the door, something much larger than firefight on Bucky's end but no less deadly.

A firefight in close quarters is never preferable but it's even worse when your opponent has more ammo than you. Bucky fires his last two rounds and hears a gut-wrenching click, the clip now empty and useless. The other guy, whoever he is, still has what seems like an endless supply of ammunition and it won't be long before Bucky is ambushed and shot to death in the corner he's tucked himself into.

He takes a deep breath and swallows thickly because there's no way he's getting out of it this time. He thinks he can rush the guy, possibly knock him off balance and keep him from getting to Steve. True, he'll die in the process but if he going to die anyway he thinks it should count for something. He's bracing himself, preparing for the charge and accepting his inevitable fate.

Just then the door miraculously slides open and Steve is tossing him a gun. He catches it and doesn't even have time to question what's about to happen next because then Steve is running toward the gunman like a raging bull, shield blocking both of them while bullets ping and ricochet off of it.

He slams the shield into one of the shelves, sending a heavy crate careening toward the gunman and causing him to duck to the side. It gives Bucky enough time to level the shot and fire one expertly place round into his chest. The gunman drops to the ground and the car goes silent once again.

"I had 'im on the ropes," he mutters breathlessly, gun still leveled on the dead man on the floor. His hand is shaking slightly but Steve is kind enough not to notice.

"I know you did," Steve assures him easily.

Whatever else he's about to say is cut off because suddenly the door slides open again and Steve is yelling at him to get back. There's flash of the shield coming up and then the entire car shakes with the force of a blast.

Steve is thrown backwards across the car and one wall explodes outward, the inside of the car becoming a frozen vacuum in an instant. There's a voice commanding them to fire again and Steve is still down and the shield is on the ground. Bucky makes his decision.

He picks up the shield because it's his turn to protect Steve, his turn to block the blast and create a distraction. He picks up the shield because otherwise he and Steve will both be killed and he can't let that happen. He picks up the shield because the man is already aiming his weapon again and there's no choice.

The blast that hits him is strong enough to throw him backwards and knock the air from his lungs. He feels a cold blast of air against his skin and he reaches out blindly, his hands wrapping around a frozen metal handle that creaks and shudders from the damage inflicted.

Steve is shouting his name, telling him to hang on, reaching out his hand. He's too far away, a few inches that stretch into miles between them. Bucky can't reach him, he knows he can't, but he tries anyway. The metal shudders and groans, shifts beneath him. Steve is reaching for him, he reaches back-

The metal breaks loose and he goes with it, falling into ice and snow and nothingness. He can hear Steve screaming his name, eyes wide and terrified as he watches him fall. He's screaming too but he can barely hear it over the rush of wind and snow flying past his face. The train, the tracks, _Steve_ disappears above him and he keeps falling.

Open air turns into solid ground within seconds it's no less forgiving. The first impact is the worst because he lands on his left shoulder and it snaps his arm like a twig. The collision sends him flipping and tumbling like a ragdoll, breaking bones and tearing skin along the way. His ribs are crushed on one side, air and blood filling his lung with a sickening gurgle as it tries to inflate unsuccessfully. His skull strikes something hard and solid and the world goes black momentarily.

He lands on his back in the snow, broken, bleeding, and dying. There's blood in his eyes, blood in his mouth, blood streaming down his face. Consciousness fades and resurfaces at random, lasting a minute or so sometimes and a few seconds others. He's trying to breathe but his lungs won't cooperate and each breath is shuddering and halted. There's a sharp, high pitched wheezing sound and it takes several long seconds to realize it's coming from him.

The pain is indescribable, worse than anything he's ever experienced, and it's enough to make him black out a few times. Each resurgence of consciousness causes fresh waves of agony and he makes some kind of pitiful keening noise at some point that he doesn't recognize as human.

He tries to move, turn, do anything to get himself up because if he stays here he will definitely die. It doesn't work; between the splintered ribs, a noticeably broken leg, and what is most definitely a skull fracture, he can't bring himself to do much of anything.

His left shoulder is on fire in spite of the cold and he tries to lift his arm to see the damage. Except it's not there. His left arm has been ripped off a few inches below the shoulder, bright, vibrant red splattering across the dirty snow beneath him. The sight is enough to make him pass out and he loses consciousness again in the snow.

When he opens his eyes again he's moving. Well _he's_ not moving but someone is dragging him through the snow. He doesn't know who found him or how but he thinks they're speaking Russian. The bloody stump of his arm is leaving a long, grisly trail behind them and there's a thick pack of dirty snow frozen to the torn flesh and jagged bone.

His vision swims again and he realizes he can't breathe. He thinks he should be panicking but he's blacking out again before he can. His head lolls backward and he catches sight of a wristwatch on the arm of one of the men dragging him. 11:17.

He blinks, coughs up a mouthful of blood, and stops breathing. James Buchanan Barnes dies at 11:17 in the morning.

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 **Thanks for reading guys! :D**


	4. Rassvet

**Hello all! Hope you're doing well! I've stumbled across this head canon a few times and I actually really love it so this was chance to flesh it out a little bit. Hope you all enjoy it! :D**

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America is a strange country. Compared to the frozen isolation of Russia, America seems unbearably crowded, insufferable, and hot. They don't send him to America often; this is the second time his service has been required and it's made clear he's the only one capable of completing the mission at hand.

The people who gave him the assignment, the ones who pulled him out of stasis, are Americans with black suits and thin smiles. They work closely with men with heavy Russian accents and their body language is one of tense agreement and acceptance. They speak of him as an object, a means to an end. They don't provide him with any explanation other than that he's rewriting history.

He's given a name, a date, an assignment, and that's all. They don't provide any additional information and he doesn't ask. He never asks. They have their own reasons for wanting it done and he's nothing more than a tool to accomplish it. They don't owe their weapon an explanation and the weapon doesn't require one.

The final instructions are delivered on a Thursday evening with the understanding that failure is unacceptable. The warning is not necessary; he's never failed. The assignment will be completed the next day, just as instructed, and history will begin anew.

They leave him in a warehouse outside the city with the file, a single chair, and three armed guards who have instructions to shoot first and ask questions later if it comes down to it. Also not necessary. He's here for a job, nothing else. America is meaningless to him; nothing more than crowded cities and polluted air. He sits in the chair, motionless and silent, and waits for daybreak.

He doesn't move again for seven full hours. With the first rays of light begin to cut through the pre-morning gloom, he stands slowly and gathers the file. Dawn arrives with the dull glow of molten metal and light, whispy clouds the color of blood. The timeline had begun and the pieces are arranged. All that's left is the final move.

The van arrives at exactly 7:30 to take them into the city. The equipment is already loaded, the coordinations set. The door slides shut with finality and the warehouse disappears in the rearview mirror.

Traffic is minimal this time of morning but streets are already being blocked off, detours indicated with bright signs. Seeing as how nothing is set to happen for several more hours, security is also at a minimum except for at main intersections and winding avenues. It works in his favor and he's able to slip out onto the street with his equipment unseen. The van disappears and he's alone. Whether they return for him or not is none of his concerns, the only thing that matters is the mission.

The bag on his shoulder is heavy, grinding against metal joints with each step. He ignores it and keeps walking; physical pain is little more than an inconvenience to him. The side door to the building is unlocked as promised and the hallways are empty. The only noise that fills the open hall is the sound of his boots across tile and plywood floors.

He steps into the appropriate room and sets the bag down, unzipping it carefully and assembling the equipment. It's a mechanical, methodical task, one he's done countless times before. He doesn't even pay attention to it, instead focusing his attention out the window to the view of the city sprawled out in front of him.

The buildings are crowded and dense, stacked together and on top of each other like crates. It stretches on endlessly in every direction, disappearing into the horizon like a sea of brick and concrete. Cities like this pose too much of a threat, too many variables and not enough planning. He despises cities like this.

Occasionally he'll get flashes of cities like this in his mind, broken and disjointed images that are too jumbled and wrecked to be memories. Places he's never been, never seen, never belonged to. Images of docks and apartment buildings and alleys. They mean nothing, they're useless and they don't benefit him in the slightest. He ignores them and sets up the gun.

The dull morning bleeds into brilliant day and it's uncomfortably warm in spite of the late season. It would be oppressive if not for the open window. He still has three hours until it's time and he sits against the wall with his back pressed against the bricks.

Traffic picks up outside as the morning wears on, crowds beginning to form on either side of the street. There's a level of excitement in the air, eagerness and anticipation. People took off work today, children were removed from school, everyone wants to say they were part of history. They will be, in more ways than they know; every person on the street will be witness to a defining moment in human history.

He takes his place and waits. The sun is high and bright now, filling the streets with warm November light. The cars are slipping into view now as they round the corner, the crowd below growing more excited. He takes aim, levels the shot, and pulls the trigger.

The screams that erupt from below are almost instantaneous. The car swerves, stops, then speeds up when the realization of what's just occurred sinks in. Blood, bright and thick and mixed with brain matter, splatters across glossy black paint. There's even more of it sinking into a pink dress, dying the soft fabric a garish scarlet. There's panic in the streets, panic in the cars, people are still screaming. He stands slowly and steps away from the window.

The suspect, a young Marine with a troubled record, has already be planted with enough damning evidence to ensure no other fingers were pointed. He had ties to the Soviet Union, accusations of communism, it would have been an open and shut investigation. Granted, he'll deny it, they always do, but it doesn't matter. He'll go down in history as well, his name connected with the blood-splattered car below.

The screaming, panicked crowds swarming below provide the perfect distraction and he blends in with them seamlessly. He no longer has the gun or the bag or anything that sets him apart from anyone else on the street. The metal arm is hidden by a dark sleeve and he allows himself to be bustled along with the flow of screams and alarm.

He follows the crowd until it disperses like a clutter of cockroaches, scattering to all corners and fleeing chaotically. Sirens cut through the streets, flashing lights, red and blue, rushing toward the epicenter of the confusion. He walks away from it.

He walks slowly and without purpose, turning a corner here and crossing a street there. He has no destination in mind and it wouldn't matter if he did; his handlers will find him and collect him and he'll disappear again just as quickly as he arrived.

Televisions in store windows are cutting to local stations with breaking news. Footage is already being posted, sobbing witnesses interviewed. It's a national tragedy, unbelievable and unthinkable; the clips are rolled over and over in secession.

He allows himself to pause in front of one of the windows where a group of people have gathered together to watch the news reel; it is a national tragedy after all. Showing little interest or a callous display of complete disinterest might raise some questions and turn some heads. He poses as a confused and concerned citizen, staring at the screen for several long minutes before slowly pulling away and continuing down the street.

The crowded and cluttered office buildings give way to smaller businesses and open lots. Small houses dot the corners occasionally, residents and homes tucked into the heart of this bustling metropolis. A park opens up at the end of one street and he walks toward it for lack of better direction.

It's mostly empty save for a few people walking their dogs or pushing children on swings. They're all blissfully unaware of the chaos taking place a few blocks away, content in their ignorance even if it's only temporary. There's a large, striped flag sitting in the center of the park, waving proudly like a beacon. Tomorrow it will be at half mast and will probably stay that way for weeks; a nation in mourning for the loss of its leader.

He stares at the flag for several minutes, watching the flap and flutter of fabric and crisp starbursts that emerge from the blue in the top left corner. He stares at the flag for a long time because it reminds him of something but he's not sure what. It shouldn't remind him of anything, he doesn't have memories, he doesn't even exist unless his services are needed. He has no past, no foundation; he is a weapon, that is all.

He stares at the flag. It represents something tangible and important, something proud. He thinks back to the man he just shot, the nation in mourning, and wonders if that's the reason he can't look away. It's not though, the flag means something more, tugs at something deeper in his mind that shouldn't be there. This flag is square but the one he thinks of is round. He stares at the flag and the flag stares back.

The van pulls up less than five minutes later and he gets in without being asked. He stares at the flag until the doors slam shut and the van pulls away from the park. It's a quiet ride back to the warehouse, no one speaks and no one needs to. The job is done and the assignment was completed as requested.

His employers are waiting at the warehouse when they arrive. They give him one short nod, the smallest acknowledgement of their approval, and then disappear. They have to appear to be confused and concerned citizens as well and they're off to play their part. They leave them to their own devices for the rest of the evening as the country continues to reel in shock.

The guards entertain themselves with a small portable television, flipping between news stations that are all playing the same story. It's been confirmed: the President is dead and the world will never be the same.

He sits in the same chair and stares at the concrete floor. He's not thinking about the news or the dead president or what it means for the country. He's thinking about that damned flag and why he can't shake it from his mind. It means something, he knows it does, but then it doesn't mean anything at all. It's fabric, dyed and stitched and so saccharine in its patriotism and pride it hurts. It means something and he doesn't know what.

The night passes slowly and quietly, hours of darkness stretching into the dull, bruised glow of morning. One of the guards retrieves a newspaper, the front page a frozen image from the news footage the day before. They drop it in his lap and walk away, letting him take in the magnitude of it in black and white script.

He glances at the front page once before pushing it off his lap and onto the floor. Outside the warehouse, the sun creeps higher, day breaking over the first morning of a new regime. History changed in a split second with a bullet and a new world was rising from the ashes. He thinks about a phoenix and he thinks about the flag.

America truly is a strange country.

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 **Thank for reading guys! :D**


	5. Pech'

**Hello everyone! Sorry for the long gap between updates! Work got a little hectic for a bit =/ Anyway, hope you all enjoy the new chapter!**

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"Sergeant Barnes…?"

The words come out slurred and broken, tinged with disbelief. In spite of the injuries and the severity of the crash, the man on the ground looks like he's just seen a ghost.

The Soldier hesitates for one second, one small, insignificant ink blot of time. That name means nothing, it's certainly not his, but it causes him to pause all the same. Time restarts, the name disappears, and he reaches down and grabs the man by the hair.

The blows come in quick succession, the first one crushing the skull and the second breaking the neck. The man dies almost instantly. The woman is still in the car, moaning and calling out for her husband. _Howard_. The man's name is Howard. She's calling out for Howard.

He dumps the dead man back into the front seat and watches as blood smears across the steering wheel. The woman can't move, her injuries are too severe, but she lets out a tiny sob in realization and slumps back against the seat in despair.

He considers letting her live and just taking the package. Howard Stark had been the intended target, not her. She can't follow him, she can't call for help. He could walk away and leave her in the smoking car with her dead husband and disappear into the night.

Extraction. No witnesses. That's what the orders had been and they were very clear on that. He walks around to the passenger side.

The woman is already dead even though she's still breathing. Clear fluid is streaming from her ears and nose, mingling with the blood on her face. Her hands are trembling and her breathing is coming in short, quick gasps. Closed head injury, probable depressed fracture. The airbags never deployed and her head slammed into dashboard when the car hit the tree. Her fate was sealed the minute the car left the road. She's dying and help isn't coming.

He reaches in and wraps his hand around her throat. She doesn't resist except for a small, gasping breath when he begins to squeeze. It takes one quick jerk to break her neck, a dull snap that's devastatingly final. It's quick and painless, much faster than leaving her to die on her own from the injuries sustained.

He leaves both bodies in the smoking wreckage and removes the case from the trunk. The final step is to shoot out the camera that had been recording the assassination from the moment it began. No witnesses. One expertly placed bullet takes out the lense and the Soldier returns to the bike with his package.

The compound is less than ten miles away and it's easy enough to make his way back without being seen. The case is strapped to the seat behind him, filled with whatever his employers thought was valuable enough to kill for. He didn't ask questions, never asked for details, he just accepted the assignment without a word, ready to comply. He has questions now though.

The target, Stark, had called him a name. _Barnes_. He doesn't know who Barnes is or why Stark called him that but he wants to know because it caused him to hesitate. He's never hesitated in a mission before, not until tonight, and the name Barnes is the reason for it. Not only that, the name came with a rank: _Sergeant_. Military then. Whoever Stark thought he was before he died was in the military.

He thinks about the name and what it meant and whether it meant anything at all when in reality it was meaningless. He had no name, no identity, nothing outside of a gun and a mission. He was a weapon, nothing more. But that name pinged off something like sonar and now he needs answers.

The rare flashes of recollection he gets during missions are not so much memory as they are snippets of a life he never had. They're never specific, brick walls and dusty alleys and strands of blond hair. Nothing tangible, nothing real, nothing to hold onto. Snapshots of someone else's life, a life before guns and blood and assignments. A life that wasn't his.

 _Barnes_. The name ricochets around in his brain like a bullet. _Sergeant Barnes._ Who the hell was that?

It's dissociated and foreign, a name pinned to him that doesn't belong. It slides off of him like oil on water and lands disused and crumpled on the ground. _Barnes._ Sorry, no one by that name here.

A new name comes to the surface then once it's clear his brain wants nothing to do with Barnes. Stark. Howard Stark. Eccentric inventor and billionaire and...something else. What else? He doesn't know because, just like Barnes, the name Stark shouldn't mean anything. It does though and he doesn't know why.

The name carries with it its own snippet of false memory, scraps of information and detail. There are flashes of light and electricity, the dull grumble of applause coming from lightyears away. Blurry images of a man, dark haired and charismatic. He spoke of the future like he had been there and the audience loved him for it.

The Soldier shakes his head and glares at the night-black road ahead. The thoughts are a distraction, one he refuses to fall for. The mission is finished and the targets eliminated. So why can't he shake the nagging thoughts rifling through his head?

The compound looms in the distance, a collection of illuminated warehouses and storage facilities, and he pulls to the back of an abandoned lot, unstrapping the case and walking inside. His employers are waiting, eyes sharp and critical as he approaches. They take the procured case without a word and open it carefully. Five blue pouches sit inside, innocuous and unassuming but apparently important enough for spilled blood.

"Well done, Soldier," one of the men tells him, his eyes still glued on the pouches. "You've helped pave the way for the future."

He's not concerned with the future; at the moment his thoughts lie in the past. _Sergeant Barnes. Howard Stark._ Those names mean something but he doesn't know what and the unanswered questions are a writhing pressure behind his eyes. The need for answers and the utter refusal to acknowledge the questions at hand are at war with each other in his mind. It won't last for long; it never does.

His employers don't allow him to dwell on the recent mission for too long; they have other plans. The pouches he'd taken are filled with a serum, something that's supposed to make more Soldiers like him. The next three days are filled with tests and trials, screams and sobs of agony. Eventually the screams stops and five assassins rise.

They're already well-trained, elite and deadly in every way imaginable, but they force him to train them anyway. He's not at his best and it shows almost instantly. One of the new Soldiers gains the upper hand during a session one day and throws him bodily across the room. He blames it on a lapse of concentration, something that has _never_ happened before, but he hasn't been right since the night he killed Howard Stark and he still doesn't have any answers.

The longer he stays out, the longer he goes without being wiped, the more the flashes and flickers of memory occur. There's still nothing tangible, nothing concrete to latch onto, but they come more frequently and with greater intensity. What accompanies them is a blinding headache, an ice pick shoved into his brain with every image. Every memory, if that's what they are, is a painful warning, an aneurysm about to burst.

 _Sergeant Barnes. Barnes. Barnes_. The name is white hot and roaring, a furnace in the confines of his mind. It burns in every meaning of the word, searing his senses and branding his skin. After spending so many years in ice and snow, the name feels like hellfire.

The name is still burning when the other Soldier flips him, the boiling agony of it charring his optic nerves. _Barnes. Barnes. Barnes._ His back slams into the wall and it momentarily cools the fire, _Barnes_ and _Sergeant_ and _Stark_ disappearing in a haze of pain and rage. The flames of memory burn hot and wild but his rage burns cold and deadly.

The other Soldier kills one of the scientists easily and the training room dissolves into bedlam. He's grabbed from behind, given orders to get his employer out of the room, and the other Soldiers are left inside. It takes two full units to subdue five Soldiers and there are heavy losses from each unit.

They're too volatile, still too new and unpredictable. They're put in stasis as quickly as possible until more countermeasures can be arranged. He watches this silently, knowing his turn will come before long. They never keep him out for longer than necessary and now that he's outstayed his usefulness they'll put him under too. It's not unexpected but it's certainly not welcome.

That moment comes a day later when one of the employers leads him into a room with an open cryo unit. They'll put him back into stasis until he's useful again, however long that might be. It's happened before and it will happen again and again and again. He almost welcomes it this time because it will finally put an end to the radiation burn of the names in his head. _Stark and Barnes. Stark and Barnes._

They're prepping him for stasis again when he asks. He's never asked a question before, never had a reason to, but he needs to know now. Because the blinding supernova in his head that occurs with every recurrence of those names is driving him to madness.

"Who is Sergeant Barnes?" he asks finally, the voice that comes from his mouth is rough and dry from disuse.

The scientist closest to him looks at him and then looks to his colleague. The weapon spoke and the weapon is not supposed to speak. They don't answer his question; they simply fit him with a muzzle that slices into his skin and shove him into the cryo tube.

It's almost worse that he doesn't get an answer. Because even though the freeze helps quell the raging inferno in his mind, it doesn't shut off his consciousness completely. He spends the next five years having nightmares about charismatic men inventing flying cars in a future set in the past. He has nightmares about a man named Stark, a soldier named Barnes, and all he sees is blood.

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 **Thanks for reading guys! More to come soon! :D**


	6. Devyat'

**Hello everyone! Hope you're all doing well! This chapter was a lot of fun to write so I hope you all enjoy it! :D**

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Nine days. That's how long he's been out of stasis. It's 2014 and he's in the middle of Washington, D.C., studying files and dossiers filled with information about his next target. The man is powerful and intimidating, he's the director of an organization called S.H.I.E.L.D. The single photo he's given shows a grim face and an eyepatch, an unspoken message of someone not to be fucked with blaring across the image in unspoken letters. This man has seen his share of evil in the world and made it cower down in front of him. Someone wants him dead though and there's nothing to stop it now.

The timetable is not concrete, the only restrictions are that it's done quickly and done right. The Soldier stares at the photo and the director stares back. He's memorized his schedule, knows exactly where he'll be at any given moment. He'll be in the perfect position in less than an hour and the Soldier will be ready. He slaps the folder shut, stands, and walks toward the door.

Nine blocks. That's how far away he is from his target. He lets the others move in first, letting them handle the job of wrangling and blocking. The director's car is surrounded on all sides, bullet holes pockmarking the glossy black paint, the windows a spiderweb of fractured glass.

The director is resourceful though, more so than they give him credit for, and he manages to evade the assault before they can finish the job. He pulls away and they chase him, other cars and pedestrians at the mercy of the frenzies chase. The Soldier watches the pursuit and walks away, following the signal from the beacon hidden inside the navigation system. He can hear sirens and screams, the explosion of crunching metal and broken glass. He keeps walking toward the intersection.

The director's car appears at the head of the street, swerving slightly and struggling to keep moving in spite of the damage. The Soldier is already waiting. He aims his weapon and fires, a small disc shooting out and latching onto the director's car. There's a concussive blast and the car flips in mid-air, landing heavily on the roof and screeching along the asphalt until it shudders to a stop. The director is not dead, he can still see movement inside the car. He holsters the weapon and walks forward.

Burning rubber and crushed metal litter the street all around the car. People are running and screaming, some of them are on their phones. It won't matter in the end. He rips the door off with one tug and slings it across the street. The director is gone, a jagged hole outlined with molten metal indicating where he had gone. Down in the sewers and off the grid. Resourceful and clever; he's always liked a challenge.

Police sirens and the wailing of an ambulance get closer. The Soldier steps off the street and disappears into an alley before they can arrive. One of the vans pulls up on the opposite end of the alley and the door swings open. He climbs inside without a word and there's a chatter of communication through the radios inside the van. There's no sign of the director but his phone is being tracked; once a location is confirmed they'll move out again.

The metal hand clenches at his side, releases, then clenches again. The muzzle is tight and digging into his skin but he ignores it. His employers don't want him to speak, hence the reason for the muzzle, so he keeps it on without a word. They want results, a status of completion. If that doesn't happen, they'll just dispose of him and move on to another. The Soldier failed in his first attempt, he won't do it again.

A confirmed location appears just over an hour later and he moves out on his own. He can accomplish more if he's alone and there's less risk of distraction. He takes a gun and the coordinates and sets out toward an apartment building on the other side of town.

The director is injured, not enough kill him but enough to slow him down. He's hiding out in a man's apartment, lights off and slumped low in a chair. He can see him through the scope of his rifle but he doesn't have a clear shot, not yet. He has to wait.

A man enters the apartment, notices the director, has a short, quiet conversation with him. The director must know he's being watched, that someone has put him on the top of a very short list. He trusts the man he's speaking to, trusts him with his life, to do the right thing, it doesn't matter. He's here because of trust and safety. The second part only lasts for so long.

The director stands, takes two steps into the middle of the room, and the Soldier fires. The shots are clean and precise and the director falls. The man in the room drops into a defensive crouch over the mortally wounded director and looks out in the direction of the shots. He sees him, across the street on the opposite roof, but the Soldier is already running.

He doesn't think the man will follow but he does, chasing after him in hot pursuit. He dives and rolls onto the other roof, coming up smoothly and slinging something toward the assassin. The Soldier turns and catches it in mid-air. It's smooth and heavy, red, silver, and blue with a white star in the center. It resembles a flag but it's round and made of metal. It's a shield and for some reason he feels like he's seen it before.

It strikes something in him momentarily, long buried and forgotten. He slings the shield back toward the man, watching as he catches it in the chest and slides back a few feet. The distraction is all he needs and he goes over the edge of the roof, disappearing down a fire escape and into a darkened alley. The man on the roof and his star-spangled shield are left behind.

Nine hours. That's how long it takes for him to track down his next targets. Pierce gives him ten but it only takes nine. There are two targets this time, a man and a woman, and Pierce makes it clear that both must be eliminated as quickly as possible. They've uncovered Hydra's secrets, found information they shouldn't have, and now they have to die.

The woman will be difficult. She's Soviet trained and deadly, a list of confirmed kills and completed missions filling her file like a phone book. Her face is strangely familiar but he can't place it. A previous mission, perhaps. One where she hadn't been the target but had gotten involved anyway. She's definitely the target now, though. The tables have turned and she's the one in the crosshairs.

The man will be difficult as well. It's the same man from the apartment, the one the director had gone to see before he died. He's a Captain, military rank and trained. His file says he was born in 1918 but he doesn't look a day over twenty-five. It's odd but he doesn't question it; he knows better than to question his orders or his employers.

There's something familiar about the man too, the Captain. The file lists everything from his childhood home to the apartment he lives in now but it's more than that. Something deep and central to his very being recognizes the man, the details of his face, the life he lived. He feels like some part of him knows this man even though it's impossible.

Outside of his orders and his employers he knows no one; he does not have associates or colleagues, no one who could pose any sort of weakness or disadvantage. He is a weapon, nothing more. This man is just another face, another target to be eliminated and a mission to complete.

He memorizes the Captain's face for a moment or so more before closing the file and pushing it to the center of the table.

Nine minutes. That's how long the fight on the bridge lasts. Sitwell is easy enough to dispose of but the woman and the Captain, not so much. They prove to be resilient in much the same way the director was and it's nothing short of irritating. He sets his sights on the woman first and stalks after her like a predator.

If he had been expecting her to go down easily and without a fight, he was sorely mistaken. She manages to get the upper hand for a few brief moments, knocking him off balance and slapping a small device on his metal arm that emits a strong electromagnetic pulse. It disables him for a few seconds but it's little more than a nuisance; it's infuriating more than anything.

He watches her retreat, shooing people out of the way as she runs, and fires. The shot isn't clean but the bullet punches through her shoulder and knocks her to the ground. It's crippling enough and he walks toward her to finish the job.

The Captain intercepts him before he can reach her and it becomes clear he's not planning to go down without a fight either. The Soldier is fast but the Captain matches him, both in defense and offense. He's just as strong, just as fast, just as brutal as his opponent, and that shield quickly transforms from a tool for protection to a weapon.

He grabs the Captain by the throat and slams him into a van but the Captain retaliates by kicking him backwards. The fight is brutal and fast but the Captain somehow gets leverage over him and flips him into the street. The Soldier lands heavily and comes up in a roll, the muzzle lying useless and disregarded on the concrete.

Interestingly, this causes the Captain to falter. He stops, blood draining from his face like water down a sink, and stares in disbelief. "Bucky?"

The name strikes something in him but he glares at the Captain instead. "Who the hell is Bucky?"

The Captain doesn't get a chance to answer because suddenly the Soldier is knocked to the ground from above, a man with metal wings landing between him and his target. The Soldier hesitates for one split second because that name means something, the Captain means something, but he doesn't know what. It doesn't matter. He takes aim and prepares to fire.

The explosion of the van behind him is just enough of a distraction and he misses his opportunity for the shot. He curses quietly, glares at the Captain once more, and disappears.

Nine minutes. That's how long it takes for everything to begin falling apart. He leaves the Captain and the woman and all the other targets in the middle of the street, surrounded by more guns than men. They'll be dead within the hour but he doesn't stay to finish the job he started. He can't, he's breaking into ragged pieces from the inside out. He runs.

 _Bucky. Bucky. Bucky._ The name ricochets through his head like a bullet, fragmented and lacerating and ripping through absolutely everything it comes in contact with. It feels like something long lost and ancient is clawing its way to the surface, broken fingernails and jagged bones as it tears its way from the pit.

 _Bucky. Bucky. Bucky._ Each syllable hits like a kick in the ribs, devastating and debilitating. _The man on the bridge. The Captain. Steve Rogers._ He knows that man, knows everything about him like he's a part of himself, but it's impossible because he doesn't know anyone. Has never known anyone. The man on the bridge is no one and nothing yet at the same time someone and everything all at once.

He doesn't know how he ends up back at the lab; everything is a haze and everything hurts. His brain feels like it's filled with glass shards and shrapnel. Pierce is talking but the Soldier doesn't answer. Is he still the Soldier? Is he Bucky? Who the hell is-?

Pierce backhands him roughly and it's enough to jar him back to awareness. He's still talking, telling him about their plans and how he's instrumental to their completion. The Soldier isn't listening. He has a question.

"The man on the bridge…" he says slowly, his voice ragged as he speaks. "Who was he?"

Pierce dismisses the question as flippantly as he can. He simply tells him he saw him earlier in the week, that the Captain was problematic and needed to be destroyed.

"I knew him," the Soldier says weakly because even though it's not true, even though he's not supposed to know anyone, this man, the Captain, _Steve_...he knew him.

Pierce just sighs and gives the orders to wipe him and start over. Clean slate. Tabula Rasa. Any memories he had or even might have had will be gone again.

"But I knew him," he says once more to anyone who will listen. No one does. They slam him back in the chair, shove a rubber disc in his mouth, and flip the switch.

Those glass shards and pieces of shrapnel in his brain turn into a blender, ripping, tearing, decimating anything and everything in his head. Memories turn to liquid metal, white-hot and scalding, and names turn into ash. Everything goes, everything disappears. Clean slate.

Nine words. That's how many it takes to bring all those memories flooding back. He's facing the Captain again only this time they're not on a bridge, they're in a warship that hovers in the air. The Captain is speaking, calling him by a name he's never heard before, talking to a friend who doesn't exist. The Soldier glares back. He has orders to kill him, one last mission to complete, and he's not going to fail again.

The Captain fights entirely on the defensive this time, blocking blows and dodging them but doing very little to inflict any of his own. He fights like he doesn't want to inflict damage unless he has to. He fight like the Soldier is his friend. Too bad the Soldier doesn't have friends.

The Soldier fights for the kill, for the end of the mission. His blows are intended to break bones and cause internal bleeding. The knives he carries and the gun are meant to inflict much worse. One blade finds itself buried in the Captain's shoulder while three bullets find themselves imbedded in his body as well. It should have been enough to kill him or at least slow him down but it didn't.

The Captain keeps going even the ship begins to fall out of the sky and his uniform is saturated with blood. He stubbornly risks his life to free the Soldier, pinned and vulnerable, from the heavy chunks of metal and glass that trap him to the floor. And then he does the stupidest thing of all: he drops his shield.

"I'm not gonna fight you, Buck," he says to a man with no name. "You're my friend."

For some reason that enrages him. He doesn't have friends, he doesn't have a name, he's no one. But this man, this stupid, _stupid_ man is willing to die to prove it to him. He growls and tackles him, pinning him to the cracked and breaking floor of the ship and punching as hard as he can.

"You're my mission," he grinds out, fist clenched tight and raised high.

"Then finish it," the Captain chokes out, his face a garish masterpiece of blood and bruises. "I'm with you til' the end of the line."

The Soldier freezes, fist still raised and eyes locked on the bloody man below him. The words rattle like a hurricane, ripping away layers and layers of darkness and fog. He knows those words because he said them himself. He doesn't know when or why or how he knows it but he knows it as an absolute fact. He knows the man on the ground too, beaten and bloody and defenseless. He knows him, he knows his face. _Steve._

The world drops out from under him and the Captain, no, _Steve_ , falls with it. He watches as he falls back down to earth, a limp, boneless ragdoll dressed like an American flag. His body strikes the surface of the river with a sickening crack and he sinks beneath the water. The Soldier watches all of this, listens as the ship breaks apart behind him, and jumps.

Nine seconds. That's how long it takes to reach the surface again. The water is muddy and opaque from the amount of debris falling from above but the surface glimmers overhead like a beacon. The burning remains of the ship looks like the last smoldering image of a dying planet and he swims toward it undaunted.

He finds the Captain ( _Steve_ his brain insists urgently) floating limply among the wreckage in the river. The silt-dulled sunlight reflects off the white in his suit as he gets closer, the color flat and faded in the murky water. Tendrils of blood hover around the tears in his suit, the bullet wounds and knife wounds, extending out from his body like crimson tentacles.

He doesn't know if Steve is dead or alive but it doesn't matter; he grabs him, tugs him against his body, limp and unresisting, and kicks them both to the surface. His metal arm remains hooked around the Captain's chest tightly, fingers tangling in straps and thick fabric.

He's not sure why he's so invested in hauling the lifeless man to the surface when in all likelihood he's already dead but he keeps kicking. His lungs burn and his head swims from lack of oxygen but he ignores it and aims for the surface.

The river is slicked with oil and burning debris when he breaks the surface, taking in a deep breath of smoke-filled air. The shore isn't far away but the unconscious (likely dead) man at his side is heavy and doing his best to sink beneath the water again. He growls in frustration, refusing to let him go even though he has no idea why he's so adamant about saving him. He tightens his grip and begins swimming toward the sandy banks of the River.

It takes longer to get there than he would have preferred, much longer, and by the time his boots make contact with the riverbed, he's breathing hard and feeling the strain of exhaustion. He stands slowly, metal fingers still tangled in the straps of the Capt- _Steve's_ suit, and drags them both onto the shoreline.

He only releases his grip on Steve's suit once he's acceptably out of the water. He drops him onto the riverbank with a dull thump that sounds wet and painful. The Captain is breathing, barely, muddy and bloody river water streaming from one corner of his mouth. He's unconscious but he's alive and the Soldier is the one who saved him. It's the first time he's saved a life instead of taking one.

He stares at the man for several long seconds, the words reverberating his head over and over. _I'm with you 'til the end of the line._ It makes him dizzy and angry (that might be the concussion he almost assuredly has) and he knows he should finish the job and just kill the man and be done with it. He doesn't though, he can't.

He could have left him in the river, left him to sink endlessly beneath the waves and drown in the murky water. He could strangle him right now, snap his neck and leave him dead and broken on the shore. He could have done any number of things to complete the mission but he doesn't. _I'm with you 'til the end of the line._ He drops down to one knee and presses his hand over the star on the Captain's chest.

Nine heartbeats. That's how long he stays. He keeps his hand planted on Steve's chest and feels the dull, shuddering thump beneath his palm. For some reason he's relieved which doesn't make sense because it should be the opposite. He wasn't assigned to keep this man alive, he was assigned to kill him. But he can't bring himself to do that. He doesn't know why but keeping him alive seems important, possibly the most important thing in the world.

He stares at the unconscious man's face, taking in every detail and trying to place it. He feels like he knows him, knows him more than he knows himself, and that's a problem. Because if he does know him, if he does have some kind of history with this man, he doesn't remember it and he doubts he ever will. The Captain was mistaken when he said they were friends because friends remember each other and don't try to murder one another on orders from government officials.

He pulls his hand away and stands slowly. Whoever he was to this man, whoever he _thinks_ he was, is gone now. He's no one and nothing, he belongs nowhere, he doesn't have friends. He doesn't have memories. He has nothing.

Nine steps. That's how many he takes before he hears someone shouting a name from behind. Steve's name. It's a woman's voice and she sounds frantic. He turns away from the unconscious man on the beach, from the man who claims to be his friend even though he doesn't remember him, the man who used to mean nothing but somehow now means everything. Ten steps. He keeps walking.

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 **Thanks for reading guys! :D**


	7. Dobrokachestvennyy

**Good God. Sorry for the long gap between chapters guys! This chapter doesn't have much of a point to be honest; it's a self-indulgent desire for someone to just be _nice_ to Bucky after everything that happened at the end of CA:TWS. Hopefully you guys like it! :D**

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"You're bleeding," a voice tells him simply and it's enough to pull him out of his dark, silent reverie. He blinks and looks up, his eyes coming to rest on a tiny woman standing in front of him. She looks like she's at least eighty and the blue, domed umbrella she's holding nearly envelopes her completely. She's standing on the sidewalk, looking at him calmly like coming home to find and ragged, bleeding man on her doorstep is completely normal.

The downpour had been sudden and unexpected and he wasn't sure how he ended up huddled on the doorstep of an apartment building but it happened. He had only been planning to stay for a few minutes, just until the rain lightened up, but the slate grey sky makes it clear the storm isn't planning on letting up anytime soon. His clothes are soaked, his hair is dripping, and all together everything is just miserable.

It's been three weeks since his fight with the Captain and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. He couldn't stay in D.C., not with the fallout of what the media had lovingly begun calling Hydra-Gate. There was too great a chance of being recognized or having one of his former handlers swoop in and take him again. So he ran, away from Washington, away from Hydra, and away from Steve.

He couldn't run far though; the downside of not knowing who you were meant no ID and no money. He ended up in Alexandria, a stone's throw distance from D.C., but it was as far as he could get for the time being. He had no goal, no destination in mind; he just bounced around the city aimlessly like a shadow being carried by the wind. He kept a low profile and stayed off the grid, sleeping in abandoned buildings and finding clothes in donation boxes. The city was much smaller than Washington but still big enough for him to disappear in. It was as good a place as any to start trying to reclaiming himself too.

He found that the longer he was away from the cryochamber and Hydra's brainwashing the more he started to remember. The memories were unpredictable and came in waves, washing over him and jerking his feet out from under him like a riptide. He'd remember snapshots of a life but the memories are grainy and unfocused, the images in his mind blurring and cutting out like film running across a crooked projector. The memories weren't whole and continuous either; they'd jump and skip over years and decades at a time, a memory from the 60s bleeds into one from the 90s and it would be difficult to keep track. There are still more gaps than pieces in his mind so his life resembles more of a distorted, half-finished jigsaw puzzle than anything else.

The night before had been bad but then most nights usually are. Last night was worse though because threat of the oncoming storm made everything damp and cold and he doesn't handle cold well. Not anymore. The cold reminds him of the cryochamber and the deep, aching freeze that accompanied it. It reminds him of snow drenched valleys, twisted metal, and icy rocks. It reminds him of a death he only remembers in his nightmares.

He woke up last night screaming and reaching out for something that wasn't there, something so close and yet so far away. A hand, maybe. A face. A life he doesn't remember. The building was empty, a foreclosed office space that would be recycled and turned into something else by the end of the month. His screams bounced off brick walls and dusty windows and found their way back to him only after they'd echoed through the building for a few seconds.

He was trembling and shivering all over, both from the cold and from the nightmare. He doesn't remember much of it, only that it was dark and splashed with blood. Most of his dreams are. Sometimes he'll see a face, a man with dark hair and a mustache or a war hero in red, white, and blue. The dreams always leave him shaken and unsteady, head throbbing and thoughts racing. He knows, deep down, that these people are important, that he knows them somehow, but he can't remember why.

When he woke up the night before, scream dying in his throat and hand reaching out for nothing, he caught sight of mechanical joints and metal plating in the dim light. His left hand was raised in the air, the metal arm outstretched, and suddenly he was furious. He wasn't sure at what or who but he took it out on the arm.

The metal limb served as a constant reminder of what he had become, what he had been turned into. It represented every terrible thing he had done, every kill, every mission, every death. He reached up with his other hand and tore at the jagged seam where flesh met metal. It's fused to his skin, connected to his body like he had been born with it, and he hates it even more. He pulled at the metal, tearing at his own skin in an attempt to remove it. It didn't work, the metal limb remained firmly attached to his shoulder in spite of his best efforts. The only thing he accomplished was shredded skin and broken fingernails.

It bled for a long time after that; the scratches were deep and wide and dark streams of crimson trickling down over smooth, gleaming metal and snaked into the joints. He didn't care, he let it bleed. It hurt but he deserved it. The arm was a weapon and needed to be destroyed and if he couldn't pull it off he could at least make sure it hurt like hell to move it.

He didn't sleep for the rest of the night, too weary from the nightmare and too unsettled to forget it. His shoulder hurt, bleeding and raw, but he ignored it. He sat there with his back pressed against the wall until the first gloomy light of morning broke across the city. He couldn't stay here, he knew that, so he stood up, gathered the few belongings he had, and left the building behind.

That had been hours ago and he somehow found himself huddled on the doorstep of this woman's apartment. It was a surprising turn of events to say the least. What's even more surprising, however, is that the woman doesn't appear bothered by his appearance, only slightly curious about his condition.

He glances at his shoulder and realizes the blood has soaked through his sleeve and is now dying the fabric a dark reddish-pink. His other hand comes up to cover it slightly and there's a throb of pain when he touches it. He clenches his teeth against it and stands slowly.

"Sorry," he tells her quietly, stepping off the porch and back out into the rain. "I'm sorry, I didn't know-"

The lady looks at him in mild confusion and looks back out at the rain-soaked street. "Where do you think you're going?"

It's his turn to be confused and he frowns slightly. He points in a vague direction, nowhere in particular, and opens his mouth to say that he's going that way but the lady cuts him off before he can speak.

"You really think I'm gonna kick you out in weather like this?" The question seems rhetorical, one she already knows the answer to but asks anyway. She lets out a soft, disbelieving scoff and shakes her head. "This weather is supposed to last the rest of the day and clear into the night, honey. I'm not about to kick you out in it."

She brushes past him up onto the porch and shakes her umbrella a little over the edge. Satisfied that most of the water is off, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a set of keys, jiggling one into the lock and pushing the door open. She steps inside and looks back at him over her shoulder. "Come on," she says, nodding inside the building. "Come on in."

He doesn't move. This isn't a good idea; it's a nice gesture, really, but he's dangerous and he doesn't trust himself around people yet. He can't stand the idea of losing control and accidentally hurting someone again and has been keeping his distance from everyone he comes in contact with and now this little old lady is literally inviting him into her home and everything about it screams bad flipside of this argument is that he doesn't know this woman at all, has never met her before in his life. He doesn't know what her motives are, what angle she's going for, what-

"Don't make me drag you," the old woman tells him with just a hint of exasperation. She's not threatening him (she probably weighs 90lbs soaking wet and he knows he could easily just run away and she would never catch him) but she's not taking no for an answer either. It's strange and it goes against everything he's ever done but he finds himself taking a slow, hesitant step back onto the porch and following her through the open door.

Once she's sure he's inside, the woman pushes the door closed and props her still dripping umbrella against the door. "Streets are gonna flood if this rain keeps up," she mutters more to herself than him before turning and gesturing down the hall. "Come on, this way."

He follows her wordlessly into the apartment, glancing at framed photographs and artwork lining the walls. It's a small apartment, single bedroom with most of the other rooms visible from the main hallway. However, in spite of its diminutive size it feels cozy and warm, a home instead of just a building. It's been a long time since he's been anywhere that felt like home; he barely even remembers what it was like.

"Sorry for the mess," the woman calls back from where she'd ended up in the kitchen. He looks around, noting the absence of the aforementioned mess. She still seems bothered by it though and continues speaking. "Wasn't expecting company tonight. Thought it was just gonna be me and the rain."

She pokes her head around the corner, giving him a once over from where he's standing motionless in the hall. "I have some clothes you can borrow if you want. They belonged to my husband and I just haven't gotten around to getting rid of them yet. Need something to remember him by, you know?"

There's a quiet clunk that sounds like a pot being shuffled onto the stove and the woman reappears in the doorway again. "If you don't want the clothes I can always throw yours in the dryer. Better than keeping them on wet." She watches him again, almost like she's expecting an answer but not receiving it. "Well, are you gonna come in here or not?" she asks finally, gesturing toward the kitchen with one hand.

He doesn't know what to say in response so he just takes a few more shuffling steps through the hallway and into the kitchen. The kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, is small but functional and painted a soft grey like spun wool. There's a small dining room table pushed up against one wall, a large bookshelf filled with cook books, and a few framed vintage labels along the walls. It's warm and comfortable and he finds himself sinking into one of the dining room chairs slowly.

Satisfied with the progress, the woman sheds her rain jacket and hangs it on a hook next to the refrigerator. She's very petite, topping out just under five feet, and she looks like a strong breeze could carry her away. Despite her age, though, she moves around the room easily, familiar and comfortable with the space allotted. Her hair is bright white, a stark contrast to the darkness of her skin, and she brushes away a wayward drip of water that threatens to slide down her forehead. She turns to look at him again and he feels her gaze down to his core.

"Honey, you look like you've had a rough couple of days," she remarks casually in what is probably the most incredible understatement of the century. He's filthy, he knows he is, and his hair is longer than it's ever been, dirty and dripping on her linoleum floor. He can feel the scratch and scruff of a beard and between the rain-soaked, bloody clothes and his haggard appearance, this sweet old woman should never have opened her door to him. But she did, for some strange reason, and he doesn't know what to say.

"Why are you doing this?" he hears himself ask quietly, hunching slightly in the chair like a chastised child.

"Pardon?" she asks, genuinely confused by the question.

"Helping me," he elaborates with a helpless little shrug. "You don't know me; I could be dangerous. Why are you helping me?" She says nothing and simply stares at him. It makes him shift uncomfortably. "Listen...I don't have any way to pay you-"

"Ah, stop," she says, holding up a hand in the universal sign of stop, go no further. "None of that. I didn't pull you in outta the rain for a reward or payment."

He blinks in confusion again. "Then why?"

The woman laughs then, startled and deep. She looks at him in surprise and shakes her head slowly. "Honey, you do realize that sometimes people do things for others without expecting anything in return, right?"

At his blank look and lack of response, she sighs and shakes her head again. The smile she offers is gentle and benign. "I can tell when someone needs a warm meal and a safe place; I've been working in shelters and churches long enough to see it. You showed up on my doorstep, soaking wet and looking like a lost puppy and what kind of woman would I be if I tossed you out?"

She waves one hand at him like the question isn't worth elaborating on any further. "I've been doing this a long time, baby; and if I made a mistake by letting you in here then it's my fault."

"Now," she says, nodding toward the hall. "I'm going to start dinner and you're going to take a shower and get out of those wet clothes; we don't need you catching pneumonia because you're too stubborn to get dry. The bathroom's the second door on the right, towels are under the sink. Leave your clothes in the hamper and I'll put them in the dryer for you when you get out."

He glances down the hall toward the indicated door and hesitates. No one has ever been this kind to him, at least not that he remembers. His handlers and employers never did anything for him without expecting something in return and usually it involved blood. He has the scars and previously broken bones as souvenirs of their "kindness" and nothing was ever gained without sacrificing something in return. He's still waiting for the other shoe to drop, the nail in the coffin.

"I do want one thing from you," the woman says as he starts to stand up.

He nearly flinches at the request. "What is it?"

"Your name."

He frowns, shoulders slumping just slightly. It hadn't been what he was expecting but it was no less difficult. He didn't know his name, not for certain at least. The Captain had called him 'Bucky' but he felt no connection with that name, not right now. The plaques he'd seen at the museum, the ones with his face and his eyes staring back at him, had been labeled 'James.' That seems marginally better, closer to a real name rather than an endeared nickname from a friend he doesn't remember.

"James," he says finally, the name feeling hollow yet whole at the same time.

The woman smiles at him, warm and gentle. "James," she says and for some reason the name means more coming from her. "Just like my son. Well James, you can call me Anna."

He tries for a smile then, an unfamiliar, foreign expression. He wonders if he's doing it right. "It's nice to meet you, Anna."

She smiles again in return. "It's nice to meet you too, James." She nods in the direction of the hallway again. "Go on, now. Get cleaned up and meet me back in here; I'll take care of your clothes for you when you're done."

He nods and stands slowly, walking into the hallway and finding the bathroom. The light flickers on from a switch on the wall and the room is cast in its fluorescent glow. The walls are a soft beige and there's a framed picture of a sailboat on the wall. The room is small and a little cramped but he doesn't complain; the cryochamber had been cramped and compared to that this room feels like a palace.

He peels his wet clothes off carefully and drops them in the sink, wincing a little when the movement tugs at the torn skin on his left shoulder. The flesh is shredded and raw, deep scratches and gouges around the metal that have partially scabbed over but not entirely. There are still watery rivulets that seep from the wounds and trail down his metal arm, catching in between plates and joints. The star is gone, he ground it off with a piece of glass two days after the battle above the Potomac. It was just one more reminder, one more thing he could never forget. It was easier to get rid of than the arm, though, and he destroyed it with pleasure.

The shower sputters a little when he turns it on but it levels itself out after a few seconds. He steps into the stall carefully and stands beneath the spray for approximately two full minutes, just long enough to get clean, before turning it off again. He doesn't want to take advantage of Anna's kindness more than he already has and using all of her hot water is unacceptable.

He shuts the shower off and stands there dripping and silent for another minute or so. Everything about this feels so strange, so domestic. He honestly can't remember the last time he had been invited into someone's home, shown compassion, treated like a human instead of a weapon. He doesn't deserve it, he's not worth the kindness. He's done terrible, unspeakable things, and anyone who thinks he's less than a monster is out of their mind.

He exhales slowly in the steam and steps out of the shower to find a small pile of folded clothes on the countertop near the sink. His wet clothes are gone, scooped up and replaced with dry spares. He frowns a little, realizing he never heard the door open and wondering how his reflexes had become so rusty in just a few short weeks. He stares at the clothes for a few seconds before picking them up and putting them on. The pants fit well enough but the shirt is too tight and he can't pull it all the way on without ripping it. Just as well probably; he doesn't want to get blood on Anna's husband's shirt either.

There's a small plastic comb on the counter as well and he picks it up slowly. The reflection that stares back at him in the mirror is a man he's never seen before, haggard and gaunt with dark bags under his eyes. This man is shell, a husk of someone who had once been human. He doesn't know who or what he is anymore but he seriously doubts it's in any way similar to the man he sees in the mirror.

He stares at his reflection for a second or so more before deciding he should at least attempt to make himself look presentable. Anna had been kind to him; she had been sweet and benign and gentle. He owes her the effort of a marginally clean appearance. He passes the comb through his hair carefully, untangling knots that had been there for weeks and letting his dark, damp hair fall into his face. It hangs like a black, dripping curtain over his eyes and he struggles with it for another moment or two to get it into some kind of style.

Satisfied with the progress, he sets the comb back on the counter and carefully folds Anna's husband's shirt back into a neat pattern. He'll have to wait until his own clothes come out of the dryer so for the moment he's left without a shirt. Normally he wouldn't care but he does now; Anna will see it and he doesn't want to scare her with the appearance of his metal limb. He thinks maybe he can maneuver it past her with a little effort and if that's what it takes to keep from alarming her then he's more than happy to comply.

Anna is still in the kitchen when he comes out, her back to him while she works on something at the stove. He doesn't want her to see his arm, he wants to keep it as far away from her as possible. The arm is ugly and brutal, a weapon fused to his body, and he doesn't want it to be anywhere near her if he can help it.

He doesn't move fast enough though because she turns, sees it, and frowns. It's not a nervous frown though, not even a frightened one; it's a frown of concern. "You're still bleeding," she tells him gently, turning away from the stove and digging in the cabinet beneath the sink. She pulls out a small plastic box and sets it on the counter beside the stove, plucking a few bandages from inside.

"Come sit down," she says, gesturing toward the nearest chair. It's not a request so much as a polite order. He's used to orders so he complies wordlessly and drops into the chair.

For a moment, Anna doesn't touch him, she just looks at the arm carefully. Her dark eyes are unreadable but the frown that tugs at her lips isn't. Once again, she doesn't appear shocked or appalled, just concerned. She reaches out carefully and touches one of the top plates where the arm connects to his shoulder. He fights the urge to flinch; not from pain or discomfort but because he doesn't want her so close to something so deadly. "War wound?" she asks finally, grabbing a bottle of peroxide and a rag.

"Something like that," he answers back, a muscle in his jaw tightening just slightly when she begins carefully dabbing at some of the deeper gouges near the metal seam. "How did you know?"

"My grandson got injured over in Afghanistan," she tells him as she unrolls a thin bandage and tapes it over one of the shallower cuts. "He lost his leg below the knee. Took him a long time to get used to the prosthetic; he used to scratch at it too sometimes when he first got it."

She works silently for a few seconds, cleaning away blood and bandaging the wounds. He sits stock still and rigid, concentrating on not moving. It seems odd that the tenderest gestures can hurt more than the wounds themselves. Her small hands are careful and gentle and it's that same gentleness that makes his breath hitch. No one had ever been gentle with him before.

"When did you serve?" she asks after another moment or so of silence, dabbing away the last of the blood and covering the deeper gouges with a thick piece of gauze.

"1945," he answers automatically, the words already out before he can stop them. He frowns and snaps his mouth shut, irritated at the loss of control.

Anna appears surprised; she stops for a second, blinks a few times, and then laughs brightly. "Well, honey, if you served in 1945 then you look really good for your age. My husband served in Korea and he's been gone for three years now; World War II was even before our time."

She smiles a little and shakes her head, taping the last of the bandages to his shoulder. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," she says quietly, her eyes flickering over his expression. "Robert never liked to talk about it and Marcus, my grandson, he doesn't like to talk about it either."

She puts the tape and bandages back in the plastic box and steps away to put it back under the sink. "I've raised a whole household of soldiers in my days," she says, straightening slowly and turning back toward the stove. "I know that war is a tough subject, one that most people don't like to discuss."

He offers a small smile in response, grateful for the reprieve. He doesn't know what he would have told her if she had pressed for an answer; he barely remembers anything from the war, his life before it. His responses would have likely raised more questions than it answered.

He rolls his shoulder slightly, wincing just a little at the dull ache that accompanies the movement. It still hurts but he can handle that; he's definitely had worse. At least it's not bleeding anymore. He looks over to where Anna is ladling something from the pot on the stove into a bowl on the counter. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Anna gives him that same benign smile and shakes her head. "You can help me by staying put and not pulling those bandages loose." She shuffles over to the table and places a bowl of soup in front of him. "And you can help me by eating everything I put in front of you; you look like you haven't had a decent meal in a long time."

He thinks about that for a moment; he honestly doesn't know the last time he ate a full meal. His handlers and employers would usually just supply him with the bare basics of vitamins and protein bars. Even in his time out of captivity he subsisted on the odd piece of fruit from street vendors and anything he could salvage from a dumpster. A homecooked meal, though? He doesn't remember ever having something like that.

The soup is amazing in every way and he finishes the bowl with no further encouragement. Anna sits across from him, working through her own bowl slowly. She looks up a few times, watching him silently like she's trying to work out a problem in her head. When she finally speaks, her voice is gentle and warm. "Forgive me for saying so but you look like you're trying to run away from something."

He freezes momentarily and she holds up one hand in apology. "Sorry if it's a delicate subject; I meant no offense. You just have that look about you. Like you're torn between trying to get away and wondering if you should stay instead."

Her words leave him floored and frozen. He's been doing his dead level best not to think about it for days now but she's right. There was something holding him back: the Captain, _Steve_. He can't bring himself to disappear completely, not yet, and he doesn't know why. Somewhere deep in his gut he knows Steve has the answers he needs, the past he can't remember, but he doesn't dare face him. Not yet.

He needs to stay away to keep them both safe because he doesn't trust himself around Steve. He nearly killed him a few weeks ago and the thought of hurting him again, intentionally or accidentally, makes him feel sick. He knows he should go, run far away and never return because that's the only way to keep Steve safe but he can't. He can't bring himself to go because Steve represents everything he's lost, everything he wanted to find again. He can't bring himself to go because he fears that if he does he really will be lost forever.

"It's complicated," he says finally, the words coming out slow and cautious like he doesn't trust them either. "My life...I don't know much about it." He gestures toward his head with his right hand, keeping the left firmly planted on his leg. "There are these huge gaps in my memory, holes that take up more space than anything else. What happened to me...I don't remember much of my life or who I am, who I used to be. There is someone who might be able to help me remember but…"

He shakes his head slowly and lets the sentence run off into the void. "I'm too dangerous to be around him right now. Running away...it might just be the best option for the time being."

For a moment Anna doesn't speak, she just listens to him quietly. Her expression is soft and compassionate, her eyes gentle. It makes his heart clench in his chest. "It'll get awful lonely that way."

He chuckles humorlessly and looks away. "Lonely is good, though. Lonely means I can't hurt anyone."

Anna gives him a small, sad smile and shakes her head. "Isolation isn't always the answer, honey, even if it feels like it is. But if you think that's what you need to do to get your life back then by all means. Sometimes the first and hardest step is to face ourselves."

He nods once in response. Her words are wise and poignant and they cut to the heart of everything swirling around in his mind. One of the most challenging, difficult things about not remembering his life before The Fall was not knowing who he is now. The man he was before, James, _Bucky_ , he wasn't that person anymore. He wasn't the Winter Soldier either. He doesn't know who he is, who he's supposed to be, and he thinks figuring that out will be the first step before he can do anything else.

Anything else he might have said is cut off by a sudden crack of thunder overhead that's powerful enough to rattle the cabinets. Anna flinches just slightly and he doesn't jump so much as go completely rigid. It takes a second or so for him to physically tamp down the urge to bolt for the door.

Anna simply looks up at the ceiling like she can somehow see the thunderclap in motion. "Flashlights might not be a terrible idea," she mumbles, standing slowly and walking over to a small pantry beside the refrigerator. She plucks a few flashlights from one of the shelves and walks back across to the kitchen table.

"Might want to keep one of these handy for the next couple hours," she says, passing one to him.

He takes it wordlessly; he's not worried about potential power outages but he's not going to deny her offering either.

The rest of the evening passes by with the heavy patter of rain and the dull rumble of thunder. Anna tells him all about her husband and how they met and the warm, loving smile on her face makes every second worth it. She tells him about her children and her grandchildren, about her work as a school teacher and her volunteer work at various churches and shelters around the city. She tells him about her life and he wishes he could tell her anything about his own life but he simply doesn't have the memories for it.

He decides then and there, in Anna's kitchen sitting at her table, the kind of man he wants to be. He wants to be someone worthy of Anna's warmth and kindness, of her hospitality and gentle, sweet words. She and her family were the kinds of people he wanted to defend, the ones he wanted to shield from the horrors of the world. He had seen and done so many awful things through Hydra that it was remarkably easy for him to forget that kind, good people still existed.

He doesn't know that he's ever done anything good in his life, he doesn't know if he will ever be able to make up for the horrible things he _knows_ he's done, but he thinks in that moment that he wants to be someone worthy of someone like Anna.

The rain continues for most of the evening, heavy downpours at times and pitiful sprinkles others. Anna insists he stay there for the evening, pointing out that the storm isn't due to subside until sometime after 5 am. She also makes it very clear that 'no' is not an option and even though he's only known her for a few hours, he knows better than to test her.

The sofa in the living room folds out into a single bed and Anna provides him with an armful of sheets, pillows, and quilts that looks like they're older than she is. She helps him set up the bed, apologizing a few more times about the still non-existent mess only she's worried about. He assures her several times that it's fine, really, there's nothing to apologize for, but it seems to fall on deaf ears.

Once the bed is made, Anna steps back and surveys it silently for a few minutes. She doesn't seem satisfied but, once again, he reassures her that it's fine. More than fine. He doesn't know how he'll ever be able to repay the kindness she'd shown him and the bed was just one more thing to add to the list.

She turns to him then, looking him up and down briefly, and offers a warm smile. "Let me know if you need anything else; I'll be right down the hall." She reaches out and squeezes his flesh hand gently. "You're safe here."

It's an odd statement to and even odder feeling. He's never felt safe anywhere and no one has ever told him he was. He doesn't really know how to take the assurance so he just nods and tries for a smile again.

"Thank you," he says genuinely because it's the only thing he can think of to say. "For everything."

Anna returns his smile. "You're welcome, honey." She turns and leaves then, disappearing from the room and making her way to the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door closes with a soft click and he's alone again.

He doesn't sleep that night for fear that the inevitable nightmares will wake her up. Instead he stays awake and keeps watch over the house. It's not much but he feels like it's the least he can do and he does so gladly.

The rain patters to a stop just after 5 am and he stands silently, gathering the quilts and sheets Anna had supplied him with and folding them carefully. He folds the couch back into its rightful place and tucks the bedding into a neat pile on the corner of the cushions. The room is neat and organized and he leaves it that way so Anna doesn't have to clean up behind him.

The apartment is still dark and he knows Anna is still asleep so he creeps to the front door silently, slipping outside onto the porch and closing the door quietly behind him. He hears the lock catch and the door knob doesn't turn again once it's locked in place. Satisfied, he steps off the front porch and leaves the apartment in his wake.

He knows he can never repay her for her kindness or the wisdom she'd imparted while he was there but he vows to make himself into even half the person she thinks he is. He's not a good person but Anna is and he owes it to her to try.

He finds his way back a few days later with a handful of flowers he'd salvaged from the back of a florist's shop. They're not perfect and some of the petals are wilted and drooping but it's the best he can do and he hopes it's enough. He leaves them on her doorstep and walks away, not stopping to see if she'll come to the door.

When he passes by a final time a day later he sees the flowers in a vase displayed prominently in the front window. He feels a genuine smile for the first time in years.

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 **Thanks for reading guys! :D**


	8. Vozvrashcheniye Na Rodinu

**Hello friends! Hope you're all doing well! So I've written it a couple of times before but Bucky low key breaking and entering and checking up on Steve in his apartment is one of my favorite tropes. He's a concerned creeper! =p**

 **Hope you all like it! :D**

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Sokovia crumbles like a piece of particle board. Buildings, streets, entire blocks break and disintegrate in midair, breaking apart from a larger piece and tumbling to earth in huge, devastating chunks. The country breaks apart on national television, on every news station in the world, and no one can do anything to stop it.

He watches in rapt, rigid silence in a cafe in Manhattan. The TV is on, the horrors displayed across the screen in clear, high definition, and every person in the cafe watches as Sokovia lifts higher and higher into the atmosphere, a country turned into a meteor. A woman is crying in the corner, someone else is praying, and all of them are helpless to stop what's happening.

It's like something out of a nightmare, surreal and awful and impossible. The news footage is shaky and blurry around the edges and there are reports that the Avengers are trying to prevent the inevitable calamity. He doesn't know who the Avengers are but it sounds familiar for some reason and that makes it worse. He's not sure why but the name pings off something in his mind and he finds himself clenching his teeth as the news reports keep rolling in. There are streaks of red and gold, thunderbolts lancing across the dust filled sky, a flicker of red, white, and blue and no, no, _no_...Steve is up there...

That's why he recognizes the name, that's where he's heard it. When he first started remembering himself, he remembered Steve first. He dug up every scrap of information he could find on the Captain and committed every detail to memory. Even if he never remembers himself fully he feels like he should at least know Steve. Steve who had ended up in war torn Germany when he should have been home safe in Brooklyn. Steve who became Captain America, leader of the Howling Commandos. Steve who became Captain America, leader of the Avengers. Steve who's standing on a fractured street in Sokovia as the entire country prepares for a free fall back to earth...

He sees him, split second and fleeting, hovering on the edge of parking lot that breaks off into the abyss. He has his shield in hand, white star emblazoned across his chest, and he looks every bit like the same reckless punk who stormed a Hydra base during the war. Crazy bastard, he never knew when to quit…

He sways a little at the resurgence of memory, gripping the back of chair to keep his balance. His memories are still jagged and distorted, like burned film being pushed through a projector, but remembers Steve the most. The information he has on the Captain reads like a textbook, black and white and factual. He knows it like the back of his hand but it's difficult to remember how it related to him, how he fit into that picture.

He still feels detached from it, a life that was lived but wasn't his. What little he does remember of himself and how he fit into these memories sticks in his brain like barbs: words and phrases, a side-armed hug, Steve saying his name. What he remembers more than anything with these memories are the feelings that come with them. Pride, concern, protectiveness. He doesn't remember who he was but he remembers how he felt when Steve was around.

The image on the screen shakes and Steve disappears and suddenly it feels like all the oxygen is sucked out of the room. He can't see him anymore, he doesn't know where he is, the camera cut away to something else and the Captain was gone. The grip he has on the back of the chair is strong enough that the metal creaks and crunches beneath his hands but no one seems to notice; they're all too busy staring at the screen.

The footage cuts away again and a visibly shaken news anchor appears on the screen to inform the viewers of the updates. He can't stand it anymore, the closeness of the cafe and the hopelessness of the situation. He pushes his way out onto the street, staggering down the sidewalk in a haze. Another television displays the same images in a window nearby and he can't help but stop to watch the devastation again. He watches carefully, eyes trained on the screen for any trace of the Captain. He needs to see him, he needs to make sure he's still alive…

Sirens are blaring somewhere in the city, the long, keening wail of a dying banshee. The news feed is instructing people to return to their homes, seek shelter, prepare for the worst. It won't matter; if Sokovia falls then the world goes with it. This is an epoch-level event, one that has the potential to destroy every living thing on earth. Seeking shelter won't change a thing; you'll be just as dead either way.

The fighting is reaching a boiling point on the floating country and every shake and shudder of the land mass could be its last. He stays where he is and watches the battle rage on across the screen. There's no point in running or hiding and he refuses to move until he knows where Steve is. As much as he tried to run, as much distance as he tried to put between them, he can't bring himself to move until he knows Steve is safe.

Something large and looming appears on the screen alongside the destruction, a floating mass much like the country itself. They're giant ships, exactly like the one he and Steve fought on above the Potomac. The news anchors are speaking excitedly, describing the situation to their viewers as the cameras continue to roll. The country is so high up now that the people scrambling to safety look like little more than specs of dust. They're loading in groups and clumps onto the waiting ships as sparks and threats of disaster continue to rage around them.

What happens next is all very fast. The land mass begins to fall just as the last few survivors make it onto the ship and he feels something clench in his stomach when he realizes what's about to happen. If that mass hits the ground it's all over.

There are more streaks of red and gold below it, the arch of a lightning bolt intended to dispel the falling debris, and the country begins to break apart as it falls. Buildings topple over, cars plunge into the void, and Sokovia disintegrates into chunks of rubble and ruin. Dust and smoke fill the air, every shot and camera angle obscured by a thick, opaque screen.

It takes several minutes for anything to come back into focus and when it does the cameras show the ships landing several miles away and unloading their passengers. He watches carefully, muscles tight and body rigid, waiting for a single image. He sees the Captain in the background, covered in dust and specks of blood as he helps a woman and her children step off the ship. He's upright and walking, alive and whole, and the weight of relief causes his shoulders to sag slightly. He still doesn't know why he's so invested in making sure the Captain is still alive but he is and now that he knows Steve is safe, he feels like he can breathe again.

The news anchors are speaking again, the footage begins to replay, and he walks away from the window. He doesn't need to see anything else, doesn't need to know anything else; Steve is safe and for some reason that's all that matters. He walks down to the end of the street and rounds a corner as Sokovia crumbles again and again on every screen in the city.

 **OOOOO**

He finds himself in New York four days later, sitting on a rooftop across from an apartment building. He's waiting for Steve although he won't admit that to himself, anticipating his homecoming like a war bride. He's stayed away for over six months, keeping off the grid and disappearing any time Steve or his partner, the man with the metal wings, got too close.

He still doesn't trust himself around Steve yet; he's not sure if his programming will snap back to the forefront and drive him to complete the mission he failed all those months ago in Washington. He keeps his distance but he needs to see him for himself though; after everything that happened in Sokovia, in spite of all the news footage that showed dusty, blurry images of Captain America, he needs to see him for himself.

The Avengers, Steve included, had been bounced from one country to the next for the past few days, helping survivors and directing aid efforts. There had been endless numbers of meetings and councils and briefings and the team participated in every single one of them. Finally, when it was deemed nothing else could be done at the moment, they were sent back to the states to recover and regroup before planning to return the following week.

He had found out all of this through S.H.I.E.L.D chatter and radio transmissions. Thanks to Hydra's almost takeover he still had access to some of their most secure channels. Interesting that S.H.I.E.L.D hadn't done an overhaul of it after the infiltration but it's not his decision so he doesn't care. All he cares about is the information that says the Avengers are returning to New York that afternoon.

Armed with this knowledge, he finds Steve's apartment, climbs to the roof of the building next to it, and waits.

The day stretches on from afternoon into early evening and it's just past 7:30 when Steve finally makes it home. From what he can see from his perch on the opposite roof, the apartment is spartan in its layout, the bare minimum of furniture and comfort. It's clear this isn't a place he stays very often. However, given the stress and adrenaline of the past few days, a quiet place with no one else around is probably like a Godsend.

Steve's apartment is the last one on the floor which means his windows face out in two different directions. It wouldn't be a problem if it weren't for the fact that Steve apparently doesn't believe in curtains and there's a clear view of nearly every room of his home from the street. For someone who tries to blend in with the rest of society outside of his uniform, Steve is surprisingly lax when it comes to the privacy of his home. Literally anyone walking down the sidewalk could look up and see Steve Rogers stumbling around his house like a newborn giraffe and be completely fine with it.

That realization bothers him for some reason, not the least of which is that Steve still seems to have very little regard for his own safety. If his memories are accurate (which is questionable even on the best of days) then he knows that Steve has never taken the safer route and routinely ignores his own well being in favor of others. Apparently some things never change and that's damn irritating.

Steve doesn't remain in the main room of the apartment for long. He sets his accumulated mail on the kitchen table, drops his keys on top of it, and heads straight to the bedroom. It's the one room of the apartment that actually has curtains (thank God for small miracles) but the Captain's outline is visible through them when he turns on the light. He shuffles around for a few minutes, his movements slow and careful like he's still recovering from the abuse sustained in Sokovia. He probably is; if the snippets of news footage are anything to go on, all of them would be nursing bruises and scrapes for the next few weeks. The light flips off a few minutes later and the apartment plunges into darkness.

He waits for close to two hours before making his move, descending from the rooftop quietly and crossing the street. He doesn't bother going through the main part of the building, opting instead to go up the fire escape below Steve's living room window. The window is unlocked, which is troubling, but it makes his job easier so he doesn't mind it as much.

The apartment is dark and quiet, the dull hum of the air conditioner the only thing filling the emptiness. He walks silently, carefully placing each step and moving like a shadow through the darkened apartment. The bedroom door is open and he can just make out Steve's sleeping form from the hallway. He stands motionless.

For several long, quiet minutes he doesn't move, barely dares to breathe. He hasn't been this close to the Captain since he dragged him out of the river and that seems like a lifetime ago. He can feel every muscle in his body, every twitch and tug that urges him to duck out the window again and disappear into the night. This is dangerous, a terrible idea, but he doesn't run. When he does work up the courage to move forward, he does so with all the care and precision of moving through a minefield.

The Captain is sprawled across the bed like he's been thrown out of a plane, arms and legs akimbo and tangled in sheets. He didn't even bother to get undressed; it looks like he walked into the room and literally collapsed on the bed. The lines of exhaustion and fatigue are clear on his face in spite of him being deeply asleep, another testament to the stress and chaos of the days since Sokovia. He doesn't even stir when the other man steps into the room, completely oblivious to the world around him. Once again, this is incredibly disconcerting but he ignores it and steps further into the room.

Up close and out of his uniform, the Captain, _Steve_ , looks incredibly young and vulnerable. As he expected there are still outlines of dark bruises and healing scrapes from the battle, wounds that were probably much worse a few days earlier. His hair is mussed and disheveled, breathing deep and even, and he's completely unaware that anyone else is in the room.

He stares at him for a long time, watching him breathe and sleep and just _be._ His memories of Steve are conflicted, some of them filled with a small, bony man with a black eye and a busted lip and others filled with the same tall, strong man in front of him. The images war with each other, collide and deflect like rubber balls. He wonders which one is real and supposes in the end that both of them are to a certain extent. The man before him was an entire list of dichotomies: small and big, ruthless and kind, Captain America and Steve Rogers.

He wants to remember him, he wants to know why this man was different from all the other names and missions and targets. He wants to know why every memory of this man, distorted and fractured though they may be, sticks with him like a second skin.

He finds himself taking a small, hesitant step forward toward the bed. His footsteps are silent and the Captain is so dead to the world at the moment he could probably sleep through a bomb blast but he's cautious all the same. He doesn't know what he's hoping to accomplish, why he's moving forward, but he can't stop it once it's begun either.

Steve's breath hitches just slightly, a microscopic shudder of noise, and he freezes in an instant, stock still and rigid like he's carved from marble. The Captain doesn't awaken but, judging by the lines of stress that tug at his forehead, whatever it is he's dreaming about is troubling. This strikes something deep within him, something inherent and ingrained and built into him like it's part of his genetic code. Steve is upset, Steve is in distress, this is unacceptable.

He reaches out carefully and slowly, oh, so slowly, brushes his finger just slightly against Steve's half-curled hand. He keeps his metal hand far away from Steve (he's already hurt him enough with that) and focuses on the feeling of the other man's skin against his human hand. Steve skin is warm and comforting and familiar, the feeling of coming home. He's known that skin all his life even if he can't remember it.

The Captain's fingers curl around his just slightly, the gesture small and innocuous enough that it could have been simply a reflex. He knows he should move, run away again and never come back. Because if Steve wakes up and sees him, if he says his name, asks him to stay...he might actually do it.

He stands still for a few more seconds, Steve's fingers curled around his own like a child searching for comfort after a nightmare. He allows his thumb to brush along Steve's index finger lightly, providing the smallest amount of comfort he can. Small bones...Steve used to have much smaller bones. He remembers that or at least he _knows_ it; Steve used to be smaller than this and he watched out for him because of that.

He shakes himself out of the memory and steps away from the bed, hand falling away from the sleeping Captain. He can't stay, he can't risk hurting Steve again, so he leaves. He slips out of the room and back out the window onto the fire escape. The apartment remains silent behind him, dark and quiet like it had never been disturbed.

There's a heavy sinking feeling in his chest, longing and hesitant all at the same time. As much as part of him wants to stay, the larger, more logical part of him knows he can't. He's too dangerous, too raw and unpredictable, and he can't bring himself to stay close to Steve. If he stays he could hurt him again and he can't let that happen. He needs to protect him, keep him safe, and that means leaving.

He finds himself on the street again, gazing up at the darkened window of Steve's apartment. Time stops for a split second as the lamp in the bedroom flickers on and he sees the Captain's shadow move behind the curtains.

Steve appears at the window then, pushing the curtains aside carefully. There's no one on the street below, the sidewalk empty and open. Whoever was there before was long gone by then, disappearing into the shadows of the city.

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 **Thanks for reading guys! :D**


	9. Odin

**Hello friends! I hope you're all doing well! :D There is a little bit of slashy material in this chapter; nothing remarkable other than a rather belated realization. It can also be viewed in the context of bromance so there's that. Hope you all enjoy! :D**

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He decides to leave three days later. Not just leave the island but leave the city, the state, the country. He can't stay here, not anymore. He needs to disappear again, get away from Steve and the city and everything else he'd tried to destroy while Hydra was still in operation. He knows Steve will keep looking for him, he'll never give up now that he knows he's alive, and that's the problem. The worst thing that could happen is Steve actually finds him and tries to get him to come back because if that happens he might actually do it.

He can't risk that though; he needs to be alone because alone is the only thing that's safe. He can't hurt anyone if he's alone and God knows he doesn't deserve anyone kind in his life. He's a murderer, a weapon forged of bone and metal. He doesn't deserve someone like Steve, self-sacrificing and stubborn as he is, killing himself trying to help him. Isolation is the best solution, a solitary existence for a man who isn't real.

His entire life, what little of it he knows, fits inside a single backpack. He doesn't have much, a few shirts and an extra pair of jeans, and a collections of notebooks. The notebooks are the most important things he has and he keeps opening the backpack and peeking inside like he's afraid they'll disappear the second he's not looking at them. They contain his memories, scrambled and disjointed though they may be, and he clings to them like a lifeline.

He's not sure what makes him start writing in them, what drove him to put pen to paper. Maybe it was a way for him to get the memories he couldn't make sense of out in the open, putting them on paper so he could decipher them at a later date. He didn't feel as confused when he did it that way, not so overwhelmed and lost when it came to the memories he should remember but didn't. So he wrote them down instead and they became a window into a life he struggled to accept was his own at some point.

The first notebook was given to him for free. There was some kind of promotion in front of an office building one afternoon and one of the all too eager and excited employees shoved the notebook into his hand along with a business card and a free pen. He took it and stared at the empty pages for a long time, wondering what he could possibly do with it. The pen felt heavy in his hand. He doesn't remember doing it, doesn't recall lifting the pen and writing the words, but there on the top of the first page, written in messy, slightly jerky letters were the words _My name is…_

He paused after that, not sure how to complete the sentence. He didn't have a name, at least not one he was comfortably attached to enough to write down. Anna had called him James and that was fine but it felt odd for some reason; too correct and formal like a name he had but never used. Steve had called him something else: Bucky. That name felt a bit more familiar but still foreign like he wasn't sure if he should actually claim it or not. The name referred to him but it didn't feel like his own. The Bucky Steve knew was dead, had died a long time ago; it felt awkward to claim the name under those circumstances.

He couldn't decide what to write so he left the page blank and tucked the notebook in his jacket. He opened it the next morning and wrote _Bucky_ at the end of the sentence and for some reason it felt right.

He spent the next several days filling every available page with scrawls and scribbles of memory, fragments of a life he was struggling to make sense of. Some of the entries were short, a few words or a sentence at best.

 _I had a sister named Rachel._

 _I lost my first tooth when I was six._

 _I hate coconut._

Others were longer and more detailed from a memory that was a little more vivid. It still felt odd writing it down, like a half-truth that may or may not become reality once it was put on paper.

 _My mother was a second grade teacher at Oliver H. Perry Elementary school. She liked teaching math and science._

 _I had a job unloading crates at the harbor during the summer of 1941. My boss was named Frank Malone. He had three fingers on his right hand from an accident when he was twelve._

 _My first apartment was in a boarding house in Greenpoint. It was a single room with a broken window and there was a grocery store across the street._

Eventually the first notebook is completely filled, every inch of paper covered in ink and pencil scrawl. It made him feel more grounded, having his jumbled thoughts and memories written down and tangible in front of him. True, some of the entries were crossed out and erased, some scribbled through when realized it was wrong or he was confusing it with something else. But having them down on paper, no matter how sporadic and disjointed they seemed to be, it helped him feel like he was more in control of his life.

The second notebook came much like the first, given to him for free on the street in front of a college campus. He started writing in it almost immediately, filling up the pages just like he did with the first one. This one is slightly different than the first, though. While the first one was filled with random thoughts and memories, scraps of information that might eventually come together in the end, the second notebook was filled with everything he knew about Steve Rogers.

It started off simply enough, the first few pages filled with everything he read at the Smithsonian and the sundry other sources he consulted regarding the Captain. He wrote down where he was born, wrote about his childhood and where he grew up. He wrote about him joining the army, becoming the leader of the Howling Commandos, sacrificing himself at the end of the war. He filled pages with how he was found, how he became an Avenger, how he exposed Hydra's corruption of S.H.I.E.L.D.

He wrote down everything the general public knew about Steve Rogers, filling the first half of the notebook in less than a day. The second half was not public knowledge; the second half was filled with things _he_ remembered about Steve, the personal, more intimate memories that couldn't be found scrawled on the walls of a museum.

 _Steve's favorite color is green._

 _Steve likes apples._

 _Steve stuffed his shoes with newspaper so they would fit._

 _Steve is double-jointed in his left wrist._

 _Steve broke his ankle in the second grade._

 _Steve got accepted into art school but couldn't afford to go._

 _Steve's mother was a nurse._

 _Steve has a mean left hook._

Just like the first notebook, some of the entries were longer and more detailed but unlike the first notebook, there were more of them when it came to Steve. His own life was still hazy and blurry but he _knew_ Steve. His memories of Steve were clearer than anything else, vivid and sharp like pictures on a page instead of words. He filled up pages upon pages with memories of the Captain, every minute detail finding its way onto the page.

 _Steve has an x-shaped scar on his right hip from tripping in the park and landing on a stick._

 _Steve sold charcoal sketches at a carnival one year to buy his mother a birthday present._

 _Steve has flecks of green in his eyes. You can only see it when the lighting is right._

 _Steve broke a rib when he get in a fight against Ricky Salas._

 _Steve is a stealth cuddler at night; he also generates heat like a furnace._

 _Steve smells like clover and cinnamon._

He keeps a few photographs tucked inside the notebook, glossy pages from magazines and enlarged polaroids from local libraries. He stares at them for a long time, willing the memories to keep coming if only to remember Steve. He feels that even if he remembers nothing else from his life, as long as he remembers Steve that would be okay.

 _Steve is my friend._

The decision to leave is almost physically painful. For every one reason he can think of to stay (there aren't many) there are roughly ten others compelling him to leave. The biggest conflict is Steve himself. He wants to stay because of Steve but he also wants to get as far away from him as humanly possible at the same time. He knows leaving is the right decision but the idea twists like a knife in his gut.

He distracts himself from these warring thoughts by collecting the money he needs to leave in the first place. It takes a while but it's not impossible. A few of his former employer's bank accounts are still open and he knows enough about them to remember their information. Stealing the money isn't the hard part; collecting it is another story. Someone collecting a couple of fistfuls of cash from an ATM is enough to draw suspicion and he has to be wary to not show his face on camera for fear of being recognized. It's a slow process that takes about a day and half but eventually he has the money he needs.

With the money in hand the only thing left to do is get out of the city. He stands outside of Steve's apartment for twenty minutes that morning, well before daylight when all the sidewalks were still empty. He stares up at the darkened window, silently memorizing the pattern of the curtains. He unzips the flap of the backpack and pulls out one of notebooks, flipping it open to half-filled page toward the back. There's a pen already tucked between the pages, holding the place for his next entry. He uncaps it deftly and scribbles a single line onto the page.

 _I love Steve Rogers. That's why I'm leaving._

He flips the notebook closed again and slips it back into the backpack, zipping it up and tightening the straps over his shoulders. His whole life exists in one backpack filled with notebooks and photographs and memories of a man in red, white, and blue. He turns and walks in the opposite direction, away from Steve's apartment, away from Steve's block, away from Steve.

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 **Thanks for reading guys! :D**


	10. Gruzovoy Vagon

**Sorry about the long wait guys! School started back up and things have been a bit hectic lately! This story is now complete but I'm working on the second part now! Thanks so much for reading guys! :D**

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He arrives in Bucharest by freight car. It's late afternoon and the sun is high and bright overhead, warming the chilly gusts of wind that cut through the car every once in awhile. He's tucked into a corner behind a stack of crates, comfortable enough with the space allotted but hidden all the same.

It had taken a bit of maneuvering but he'd managed to go completely unnoticed when the containers were loaded onto a freight ship, slipping into the car and disappearing into the back. No one knew he was there and he had enough food and water stashed in his backpack to keep it that way for the duration of the trip.

The ship reached its port and the container was moved to a waiting rail line a few days later. No one bothered to check the containers before the transfer and he remained hidden in the back compartment of the car. As long as he kept a low profile and stayed quiet, he could slip out at the next stop and disappear, nameless, into a new city.

The train rattles along for a little over a day before finally pulling into a station in the city. He waits for just the right moment to leave the car, the few seconds when the rail line workers will be distracted with unloading other cargo. The container is opened and he creeps through the shadows along the side of the car, slipping out between one second and the next and mingling in with a crowd of people passing by the station. With the backpack slung over one shoulder and the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, he looks just like another tourist stumbling along the crowded streets.

The city is large and sprawling but it still doesn't seem big enough. He needs a metropolis, a major city with hundreds of thousands of people. He needs a place where he can disappear, erase himself and start over. Maybe then he'll be able to start undoing what Hydra did and get his life back. It's a long shot and he knows it but he has an abundance of time now so what else is he going to do?

He wanders the city for an entire day before finally finding a boarding house on a less crowded side of town. As much as he needs to blend in to avoid raising suspicion, he also wants to avoid hurting anyone in the process. He's getting better, slowly, painfully slowly, but he's still unstable and he doesn't know what might happen if he gets triggered again.

He finds an apartment building somewhere in the middle of the block with a sign that says there are rooms available. The man that meets him in the manager's office doesn't ask too many questions; the wad of cash dropped on his desk ensures that his newest tenant can pay and that's all he cares about. He gives him a key and makes him sign a piece of paper that looks nothing like a legal document and then nods him toward the stairs.

His new apartment is on the ninth floor, last door at the end of the hall overlooking the open atrium in the center of the building. It's sparsely furnished with a refrigerator and a small, twin bed frame with a ratty mattress on top of it pushed up against one wall. The walls are a dull yellowish-brown that could be attributed to either cigarette smoke or mold and the windows are grimy both inside and out. It's a small, cramped space with leaking faucets and rickety floorboards but it has four walls and plumbing and for now that's all he really cares about.

The first thing he does is pry up the floorboards in the kitchen and tuck his backpack inside. He doesn't unpack it or take anything out, he leaves it exactly the way it is. The backpack contains all of his money, the notebooks, and the few scraps of his personal life he's managed to salvage along the way. He knows from experience that if it ever comes down to it and he has to leave in a hurry it helps to have the bug out bag already packed and ready to go. He repositions the floorboards and taps them back into place, hiding everything in plain sight.

He stands, suddenly exhausted. The days he spent in the freight car had been comfortable enough but it still put an undeniable strain on him, physically and mentally, and he's reached the end of his energy reserves. He stumbles over to the threadbare mattress and collapses on it it, wincing just slightly when a wayward spring pokes through the material and jabs him in the kidney. He reaches under his back and deftly snaps the spring with his metal hand, tossing it across the room carelessly. It bounces off one wall and scitters across the floor.

The mattress is old and smells like mildew but it's comfortable enough so he doesn't complain. He's tired, more exhausted than he ever remembers feeling, and all he wants to do is sleep. His mind won't let that happen though, always alert and hyper aware of everything around him. It's worse now that he's in a new city. He lays on the bed and he stares at the ceiling and he doesn't sleep.

 **OOOOO**

The first month passes by in a blur. He becomes acquainted with the city, the ins and outs and in betweens, and figures out how he'll live there. He picks up the language easily enough and finds it's easier to speak when he's not responding in short, clipped Russian. It doesn't happen often but occasionally he'll allow himself to be drawn into a conversation with some of the other tenants, discussing problems with the building or events going on around the city. His neighbors are kind enough but they keep to themselves too so he doesn't feel quite so guilty when he disappears back in his apartment at the end of the day without saying anything to anyone.

He develops something of a routine as the days stretch on, something to cling to and add balance to his life. When he gets home he pries up the floorboards to make sure his backpack is still there. Reassured of its location, he pulls out the notebooks and reads through every single one of them, sometimes only once and sometimes multiple times. He reads the words and commits them to memory day after day because he doesn't know if he'll ever find himself in another position when he forgets everything written in the notebooks again.

He collects two more empty notebooks and fills them with his memories and facts. It still feels strange sometimes, the memories of his life still so foreign even as he writes them down. He does it anyway because even if he can't remember it fully he knows they must have some significance. He writes down words and phrases, snippets and snapshots of a life long ago. It gets committed to paper and then tucked away beneath the floorboards for safe keeping.

After another month, the notebooks no longer fit in the backpack. There are too many of them now, every sheet filled to the margins. There's no space inside the backpack so he allows some of them to spill out onto the kitchen counters and windowsills. He's collected photographs and newspaper clippings to go with them, tucking them in between pages and using them for bookmarks and emphasis. The only photograph that doesn't get tucked away is one of Steve.

He doesn't really remember where he found it (he thinks it came from a Library), only that it ended up in his possession and now he clung to it like a drowning man grasping at a life preserver. The photograph shows Steve decked out in his Captain America uniform, head-to-toe in red, white, and blue. The shield is by his side and he's looking off in another direction, jaw set tightly in determination. It's a striking photo, one he remembers seeing emblazoned in the Smithsonian.

He stares at it and frowns, pulling down a half-filled notebook from one of the shelves. There's something about the uniform that tugs at his brain, pokes and prods like a child with a stick. He remembers the uniform on the battlefield, streaked with ash and frozen dirt, the white star standing out like a beacon. But that was the second (or maybe third) uniform. No, he remembers the first one, the one Steve wore when he broke into the Hydra facility.

He flips the notebook open to one partially filled page and jots down a few words.

 _Steve wore a brown leather jacket and a costume helmet. There were goggles attached to the helmet; he jumped out of an airplane over Nazi Germany. Into the middle of a war zone. Steve is a fucking idiot._

He leaves the notebook, along with the picture of Steve tucked inside, resting on the counter. He thinks he might write more later as more memories resurface but for right now he's tired.

The mattress got thrown out a few weeks ago, replaced with one not quite as old and not smelling of mildew and old sweat. He sleeps in a sleeping bag, not comfortable enough to sleep with sheets or blankets or anything he could get tangled in. It never hurts to be too careful.

 **OOOOO**

The world grinds to a halt on a Thursday. He's standing in the market, speaking with a woman at a fruit stand. She's kind and smiling, telling him about the produce and the prices for it, and he speaks easily with her as he picks out a few plums. Something catches his attention though; call it a feeling or intuition or just years of being on the outside of the law but he knows someone is looking at him.

He turns and there's a man standing at a newsstand across the street. He has a newspaper in his hand and he's staring at him with an odd expression on his face, almost like he knows something no one else does. A wave of dread hits like a sucker punch.

The air suddenly feels chilly and he abandons the fruit stand with a quiet apology, walking across the street to the newsstand. The man sees him approaching and steps away, dropping the newspaper on the counter and walking in the opposite direction. He comes to a stop at the newsstand, reaching out to grab the paper as he watches the man walk away. The images on the front page causes him to suck in a sharp breath.

There's been a bombing at an embassy, multiple casualties, a few fatalities, and for some reasons his face is on the front page. The image is blurry and grainy, captured by a security camera, but it's him. Or at least he thinks it's him. He didn't do this, he's at least somewhat certain of that, but he has no explanation as to why his face would be the one on that security camera. The logical answer is someone is trying to frame him (he's not sure why) but a more troubling thought creeps into his mind behind that: _what if I_ did _do this?_

He knows all too well that he's done things he has no memory of doing. He's broken into buildings, kidnapped targets, killed anyone unfortunate enough to have their name end up on his list. He's done all of this with no memory or control of his actions and snapped back to reality hours or days later with nothing to go on other than the blood on his hands. It's sick and terrifying and the worst part is he has no idea if it's happened again.

He feels sick and dizzy, his mind spinning wildly like a satellite knocked out of orbit. He tries to think, tries to remember. _Did I do this? Was I the one responsible?_ He doesn't know…

His feet carry him back to the apartment almost as if they're acting on their own; he certainly doesn't remember walking in that direction. It's not until his foot hits the first step on the ground floor landing that he realizes where he is and what's going on. He needs to leave, grab his things and run. It doesn't matter if he was actually responsible for the bombing or not; people think he is and that's a death sentence.

A list of tentative locations and how to get to them rattles through his head as he takes the stairs two and three at a time. The train and the freight cars are his best option, they would conceal him well enough to get him out of the country without someone seeing him and raising the alarm. The next train is set to depart in an hour and he knows he can get to the loading dock in about thirty minutes. He just needs the backpack and his notebooks.

He freezes momentarily when he reaches his floor, every muscle in his body going rigid. The door of his apartment is closed but knows someone is inside...he can feel it. Maybe he should abandon the apartment and the backpack and the notebooks and just run, leave everything behind. He dismisses the idea quickly. He doesn't want to fight, doesn't want to hurt anyone anymore, but those notebooks and the memories they hold are the only things that truly belong to him and he can't leave them behind. He opens the door and steps inside.

The man standing in his apartment is not armed and while he's obviously here for him, it's not a threat. He has his back to him, one of the notebooks cradled in his hands, and his fingers are brushing over a picture of himself in the front of the book. He seems to realize he's not alone almost the second the other man enters the room and he turns to face him. Blue eyes lock on him and his expression is unreadable.

"Do you know me?" he asks, his voice slightly clipped as he speaks. There's no wariness in his eyes, no hint of fear or doubt or uncertainty. The question is not so much a question as a formality; they both know he knows him and there's no way to deny it.

He wants to though; God, he wants to. Because if he denies it maybe Steve will leave and get away from him because it's not safe, especially now. He has a target on his back, bigger and brighter than it's ever been, and Steve being close to him will only end with him hurt or dead. He can't let that happen. He wants to deny it but the question hangs in the air like a pause.

 _Do you know me?_

Of course he knows him. Steve is the only thing he _does_ know, the only thing he wants to know. He knows him better than he knows himself, knows him better than his own life. He knows Steve and for some reason that feels like the only thing that's ever mattered. He offers a very small nod in response.

"You're Steve."

 _And I'm Bucky..._

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 **Thanks for reading! :D**


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